


Copyright N? 


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* 







THE MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL 


BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

WAYWARD WINIFRED 

A New Story for Girls 
12mo, cloth, 85 cents 


PAULINE ARCHER Cloth, 45 cents 

MARY TRACY’S FORTUNE . . Cloth, 45 cents 
A MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY . Cloth, 45 cents 
A SUMMER AT WOODVILLE . Cloth, 45 cents 
THE TALISMAN Cloth, 60 cents 


THE TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD. 

A Novel. Cloth, $1.25 
THE PILKINGTON HEIR. A Novel. 

Cloth, illustrated, $1.25 


For sale by all Catholic Booksellers or sent 
on receipt of price by the publishers. 


THE MYSTERY 

OF 

HORNBY HALL. 


BY 

ANNA T. SADLIER, 

A 

Author of “Wayward Winifred,” “The Talisman,” etc. 


NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO: 

BENZIGER BROTHERS, 

Printers to the Holy Apostolic See . 

1906 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Conies Received 

MAR 22 1906 

WSZtTr* 

class Cl kxc, No. 

I 4 - t 3 % 7 

COPY B. ' 


Copyright, 1906, by Benziger Brothers. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Mayfair 7 

II. Hornby Hall 20 

III. Marjorie Describes Her Visit .... 34 

IV. The Coming of Mary Pemberton ... 46 

V. Mary Is Introduced to Mayfair ... 59 

VI. Mr. and Mrs. Morton Recall the Past . 71 

VII. Mr. Morton Forms a Plan 83 

VIII. Mary’s First Time at Church .... 95 

IX. Mr. Morton Holds a Meeting in Mayfair 106 

X. The Long Barn 114 

XI. The Loft over the Long Barn and What 

Was in It 125 

XII. Mrs. Miles Plays a Comedy . . . . 138 

XIII. Preparations for the Great Event . . . 146 

XIV. A Delightful Festivity 157 

XV. Mary Is a Center of Attraction . . . 165 

XVI. Mrs. Miles Grows Desperate . . . . 175 

XVII. Visitors to Hornby Hall 189 

XVIII. Mr. Morton's Tale, Which Unveils the 

Mystery ... 200 


5 










The Mystery of Hornby Hall. 


CHAPTER I. 

MAYFAIR. 

“T wouldn't live at Hornby, with old Mr. Pem- 

A berton, like that poor Mary, for anything !” 

The speaker was Marjorie Morton, who nodded 
her head till her curls fell in a wild tangle about 
her face, though she was a “great girl” now, as 
her father told her, and too tall to climb trees. 
That was just what she had done, however, at the 
moment, and she was seated upon a high bough, 
swinging to and fro with the keenest enjoyment. 

“She must be a queer sort of girl,” said Dick 
Dalton, a tall, fair boy, who was just beginning to 
be careful about the cut of his clothes and the trim- 
ming of his hair. “I should like to see her.” 

“Well, I wish you could go, then, this afternoon, 
instead of me,” responded Marjorie from her 
perch. 

“Are you going there?” cried Dick, and a chorus 
of voices repeated the inquiry. 

The two Wallace boys, Ned and George, who had 


7 


8 


Mayfair. 


been assiduously engaged with Luke Morris in 
playing an impromptu game of baseball, stopped to 
hear the reply, and so did the Lewis girls, Marie 
and Florence, who were busy deciphering a puzzle 
which Jack Holland had put on paper for them. 
Jack was, at least in his own opinion, a very con- 
spicuous figure in the little circle of boys and girls 
who were accustomed to meet almost daily in this 
pleasant field, with its clump of shade trees, which 
they had christened Mayfair. Jack was a slim, 
tall, eager-eyed youth, who like his chum Dick 
Dalton rejoiced in an immaculate collar of notice- 
able height, and had begun to speak of Marjorie 
and others of the little group as “kids.” 

“Hello!” said Jack after a pause, following the 
exclamation with a long whistle. 

“Why shouldn’t I go to Hornby?” asked Mar- 
jorie cooly, though she fully enjoyed the sensation 
she had created. 

“Why?” answered Jack, sharply. There was 
something of a feud between him and the girl, 
who had not sufficient respect for the young col- 
legian’s good clothes and grown-up ways. “Why? 
Because nobody’s set foot there for years and your 
folks have been dead cuts with the Pembertons ever 


since. 


Mayfair. 


9 


“Well, we’re going,” declared Marjorie, looking 
loftily down, with an air which made even the 
boy’s collar appear insignificant. “ We’re going to 
call. Mother has ordered the carriage for three.” 

“You’re going to call!” cried Dick scornfully — 
“a kid like you? You mean, I suppose, that Aunt 
Lucy’s going to call and is taking you with her for 
the drive.” 

“You are rude, Dick, but boys will be boys,” 
retorted Marjorie with dignity. “I am going to 
see Miss Mary Pemberton.” 

Dick threw himself down upon the grass and 
rolled over, laughing, while Jack resented the little 
girl’s air of superiority and looked angrily at the 
dainty figure in the tree. Marjorie, for her part, 
rode her mimic horse with perfect equanimity, 
shaking the bough of the ancient oak till the tree 
leaves danced in the sunlight and a shower fell 
upon the grass below. Catching the vexed look 
upon Jack’s face, Marjorie promptly made up a 
ball of leaves and aimed it so well at the enemy 
that his immaculate collar was struck. 

“You stop that!” cried Jack wrathfully, as he 
carefully brushed off the leaves and felt the surface 
of his neck-gear, to be sure that the celluloid polish 
of which he was so proud had not been destroyed. 


10 


Mayfair. 


“You stop that, I say, Marjorie,” he repeated 
angrily, as he saw she was about to prepare another 
missile. But he thought it prudent to take himself 
out of her reach. For he knew that if Marjorie 
thought fit to continue the sport he could do 
nothing to hinder her. It would be impossible to 
fight with a girl, especially as he did not care to 
make himself ridiculous before Miss Marie Lewis. 

She was the daughter of a wealthy banker, a 
comparatively new arrival in the place, and, in a 
word, the latest sensation. Having secured him- 
self against attack, Jack bent once more over the 
puzzle, explaining to Marie and her sister with his 
patronizing schoolboy manner exactly how it 
should be worked. Marjorie felt the futility of 
any further warfare in that particular line, but she 
had a lively tongue and soon began to pelt her van- 
quished foe with a variety of rhyming epithets, 
which made the self-conscious lad furious: 

“Jack, so handy, 

He’s a dandy, 

Dotes on candy ! ” 

Jack’s silence was intensely dignified, while Mar- 
jorie presently made a change in her ditty: 

“Jack, be nimble, 

Jack, be quick, 

Jack, jump over the candlestick 1 ” 


Mayfair. 


ii 


“You were nimble enough getting behind the 
tree, Jack,” went on Marjorie. “You see, Marie, 
he can't have a good, honest fight because you’re 
here. He used to just pelt me back again with 
leaves. But now he’s trying to pretend he’s grown 
up, because he goes to college and wears a collar 
so high that it nearly chokes him.” 

“You little wretch!” Jack muttered under his 
breath. “I’ll pay you back for this somehow or 
another !” 

Dick Dalton laughed aloud, as he lay on the grass 
looking up at the sky, and Marjorie, unrelenting, 
sang on: 

“Jack and Jill went up the hill 
To fetch a pail of water ; * 

Jack fell down and broke his crown, 

And Jill came tumbling after!” 

Marjorie broke off with a laugh, as she cried 
out: “Oh, wouldn’t I love to see Jack tumbling 
down a hill. He’s so mighty dignified and con- 
ceited.” 

All the children were laughing by this time, even 
Mary Lewis, who was what is generally described as 
a “sweet girl” and hated to hurt any one’s feelings. 

“And you are a rude, detestable child!” cried 
Jack, losing his temper completely. “You ought to 
have your ears boxed and be sent off to bed.” 


12 


Mayfair. 


“Softly, Jack,” said Dick, turning his head and 
looking up lazily at his chum. “I can’t stand that, 
you know. I won’t have you talking that way to 
my cousin.” 

“You won’t, eh?” roared Jack. “Well, stand up 
and let me thrash you as I can’t thrash her.” 

“I’ll fight you any time you like,” responded Dick 
sternly, “but not before girls.” 

“Fight?” exclaimed Marie Lewis in distress. 
“Oh, surely, you wouldn’t do that.” 

“Oh, certainly not before you!” answered Jack. 
“I beg your pardon — I quite forgot myself.” 

He took off his hat and bowed to her with his 
best college air. But Marjorie’s sharp eyes saw 
from the tree-top the look Jack gave Dick and that 
which Dick returned, and heard the whisper : 
“After supper!” 

She promptly came down from her perch, slim 
and dainty in her blue chambray frock, and walked 
straight up to Jack. 

“I was very rude and provoking,” she said, hold- 
ing out her hand, “but I was only in fun and you 
mustn’t be angry !” 

Jack’s anger was very swift and sudden, but it 
never lasted. Marjorie had hurt his vanity by her 
ill-timed jests before these town-bred girls. Yet he 


Mayfair. 


13 


was easily appeased, the more especially that he 
was already sorry for having got into a quarrel 
with his best friend, Dick, and with an uncertain 
prospect of results, too. For though Jack was no 
mean fighter and had plenty of pluck, Dick was 
noted for his strong arm and matchless coolness. 

“Oh, I suppose it’s all right, Marjorie/’ he an- 
swered in an exaggerated tone of patronage; “kids 
will be kids, but remember after this that children 
should be seen and not heard.” 

“You are really a ridiculous boy,” Marjorie ex- 
claimed, eyeing him critically, “but you hear, Dick, 
we’ve made it up. I take back all I said about Jack’s 
being nimble and a dandy and handy and falling 
to break his crown.” 

There was the light of mirth in her eyes as she 
made the apology and added, speaking for her late 
opponent: “And Jack takes back, of course, all 
the rude things he said to me.” 

“I suppose I must,” Jack conceded; “and I have 
no quarrel with you, Dick.” 

“That’s all right, old fellow,” responded Dick 
heartily, “and I’m glad of it. There’s always 
enough shindies with other chaps to keep one’s 
hands in.” 

“I wonder why boys are always wanting to 


14 


Mayfair. 


fight,” observed Marie, with her little, affected voice 
which she used on occasions. 

“Why do puppies try to bark and ducks to 
swim?” answered Marjorie; “it’s their nature; they 
don't seem happy without fighting and probably it 
does them good, once in a while.” 

Marie opened her blue eyes very wide. 

“You surely are not in earnest,” she cried. “Oh, 
you shocking child!” 

“Does that shock you?” Marjorie inquired. “I 
can't help it even if it does. I think some boys 
would grow into great big bullies if there weren’t 
other boys to keep them in order. We couldn’t do 
it, you know.” 

“I should hope not !” exclaimed Marie, looking 
at the boys for sympathy, out of her large, light- 
blue eyes, but Dick was chasing a stray cat and Jack 
looked gloomily abstracted. He was not sure that 
he had come well out of the affair. The three 
others were busy with their ball. 

“Girls are ever so much nicer than boys,” Mar- 
jorie declared; “I’m just as glad I’ve no brothers. 
Cousin Dick isn’t so bad as some, but still he’s not 
nearly so nice as if he were a girl.” 

Florence Lewis, who had not the china-doll pret- 
tiness of her sister, but was of a sociable disposition 


Mayfair. 


15 


and destined to become a great favorite with the 
Mayfair boys and girls before the summer was 
over, answered promptly in her cheerful fashion: 

“Boys have their good points, Marjorie. We’ve 
a lot of brothers and I’m only sorry that they’re so 
much away at school.” 

“Perhaps if I had brothers I might like them bet- 
ter,” Madge agreed, “and I don’t think boys are 
so bad till they go to college and begin to fancy 
themselves men.” 

Jack thought it wise to take no notice of the in- 
sinuation contained in this speech. He let his eager 
eyes follow the Wallace boys and Luke Morris in 
their game and Dicky in the cat chase. For he was, 
after all, a boy at heart and, whatever he might 
pretend, was still engrossed with a boy’s aims and 
interest. 

“Good for you, Luke!” he cried, rising to his 
feet in the excitement of the game. “A' good 
catch, old fellow, a good catch!” 

His face lighted up with interest, his eyes flashed, 
he clapped his hands with enthusiasm. 

“How much better you look, Jack, when you are 
just a boy,” observed Marjorie, regarding him 
sympathetically. “I think you’d make rather a nice 
girl, too, you change around so soon.” 


i6 


Mayfair. 


Jack reddened to the eyes and walked away with 
dignity, and Marjorie laughed as she looked across 
the road to the brick-paved stable-yard which 
flanked the Mortons’ house. She jumped up 
hastily. 

“My, there’s Jerry going to harness the horses !” 
she cried. “I must run and dress. Going to call 
on people is a bother. I’d rather stay here. Good- 
bye, girls.” 

“Good-bye,” said Florence; “we’ll just be dying 
to hear what that strange place is like.” 

“Oh, yes,” added Marie, “and the girl.” 

“Unless you get eaten up, come out after supper 
to-night and tell us all about it,” Jack called after 
her. 

“If children should be seen and not heard, how 
can I tell you all about it?” flashed Marjorie back 
at him from the middle of the road. “I don’t be- 
lieve I’ll tell you anything.” 

“She will though, for all that,” Jack declared, 
confidently. “She’s good-natured and never keeps 
spite. Only she’s such a kid and talks through her 
hat.” 

As Marjorie was out of hearing, there was no 
answer forthcoming, fortunately for the peace of 
that green and sunny Mayfair, which the half-jest-^, 


Mayfair. 


17 

mg squabbles of the young people indeed only 
served to enliven. 

So, while the sun shone down through the 
branches of the trees overhead, making a checker- 
work upon the soft grass underfoot, the boys and 
girls turned their eager attention upon the Mortons’ 
house, which was directly opposite, and presently 
they saw the carriage roll out at the gate, and Mar- 
jorie sitting up very straight beside her mother. She 
looked very well in her soft white dress, the tangle 
of curls being smoothed out considerably under 
her leghorn hat and a blue sunshade in her hand. 

“Marjorie is like a fairy queen in a book !” cried 
Florence, half mischievously, half admiringly. 

“She’s very pretty,” assented Marie. 

“Marjorie’s well enough,” pronounced Dick, 
carelessly. “She’s lots of fun, though, and looks 
don’t matter, anyway.” 

The Lewis girls now left the boys in undisturbed 
possession of the field, and soon Jack and Dick had 
off their uncomfortable collars, and their jackets 
as well, and were as deep in the game of baseball 
as any one. 

“Girls are a bother anyhow,” declared Jack, 
abandoning his company manners. “They’re a per- 
fect pest to have around.” 


1 8 Mayfair. 

“Marjorie is good fun,” argued Dick, stoutly. 
“There’s no nonsense about her and she doesn’t 
care whether we’ve got collars on or not.” 

“Yes, she’s the right sort,” agreed Ned Wallace, 
“and she can throw a ball as well as anybody.” 

“And run,” put in George Wallace. 

“And play cricket,” added Luke Morris. 

“Oh, well,” commented Dick, “she’ll have to 
give up all that sort of thing now. She’s getting big 
and she’s to go to boarding-school in September.” 

“She’ll come back just like those stuck-up Lewis 
girls, who sit up like dolls, afraid to get their dresses 
spoiled,” grumbled Luke Morris. “I hate girls like 
that.” 

“Marie Lewis is all right,” Jack pronounced, 
with some warmth. “She’s a very sweet girl.” 

“Trying to pretend she’s a big lady,” grunted 
Luke; “she’s too sweet to be wholesome.” 

“Shut up, Luke!” exclaimed Dick, “we don’t 
want any bickering in Mayfair. We’ve had a jolly 
time so far together.” 

“That’s so,” agreed the Wallaces, “L guess we’d 
miss any of the crowd if they went away.” 

While this talk was going on in the pleasant 
meeting-place of Mayfair, the carriage rolled along 
the smooth road, making more than one winding 


Mayfair. 


19 


and finally turned in at the gate of Hornby Hall, 
as the Pemberton residenqe was called. Why, in 
this democratic village in the heart of Pennsyl- 
vania, the dwelling should have received the aris- 
tocratic appellation it was hard to say. 

Marjorie, who was quite pale with excitement 
and something like fear, sat very still by her 
mother’s side. She trembled when Jerry got down 
from the box and mounted the steps. The man 
himself was not quite free from apprehension, such 
were the tales that were told in all the countryside 
about this mysterious dwelling. Marjorie felt as 
if her heart would stand still in that breathless 
moment after Jerry had rung the bell, and she 
fancied that her mother was not altogether at ease 
either, which was indeed the case. 

“I wish I were back in Mayfair, with the boys 
and girls !” she said to herself, recalling how bright- 
ly the sun had been shining on the green grass. 
Here everything seemed damp and cold and, as 
Marjorie expressed it, “ghostly.” For no one had 
raked up the dead leaves of last autumn and there 
they were on the paths, brown and sere, sending 
forth a mouldy odor as they rotted away, and chok- 
ing the fresh shoots of grass which vainly attempted 
to rear their heads. 


CHAPTER II. 

HORNBY HALL. 

T he bell went clanging, with harsh, discordant 
sound, through wastes of dreariness. It 
seemed to Marjorie as if its angry tones must bring 
some malign shapes from their lurking-places to 
confront the daring intruders. At last the door 
was opened by an old woman, with silvery hair and 
a peculiar, ashen whiteness of face. It seemed as 
if the color of her hair had been bleached out of it 
by some special process; and Marjorie wondered 
if it could have turned white in a single night. For 
surely it had not the natural appearance of hair 
that had lost its color in the slow passage of years. 

Jerry asked, with a voice which had a tremor in 
it, if Mr. Pemberton was at home. 

“Mr. Pemberton, ,, responded the woman, with 
a ghastly laugh which showed toothless gums, 
“where else should he be but at home? He can’t 
put a foot under him.” 


20 


Hornby Hall. 21 

Mrs. Morton here bent forward and said to the 
old woman: 

“Ask if he will see Mrs. Morton and — her little 
girl, and say also that they would both like to see 
Miss Mary Pemberton. ,, 

The woman went away and Mrs. Morton leaned 
back in the carriage, with the air of one who is ac- 
complishing a dreaded duty, and as she slowly 
looked around her she thought of the past, when 
Hornby Hall had been a place of merrymaking and 
she a young girl, coming here for a ball, or setting 
out upon some expedition with a merry party of 
young people from that very hall-door, which now 
seemed to frown upon her with gloomy severity. 

Marjorie could, of course, have no idea of the 
curious sensation with which her mother mounted 
those once familiar steps, but she herself felt, as 
she afterward explained to an interested audience, 
as if she were stepping into an exciting but rather 
frightful story-book. What the next page of that 
book would disclose she could not guess, but she 
presently followed her mother into a dark and 
sombre-looking room. There were pictures of 
stern-faced men upon the wall, and one of a girl 
in a ball-dress of pink, with a bouquet of roses in 
her hand and a certain, delicate charm in features 


22 


Hornby Hall. 


which yet were irregular, in eyes which must have 
been luminous in the living person, and in lips that 
smiled, half-parted. 

Marjorie stared at this portrait with fascination. 
It seemed so utterly out of keeping with its sur- 
roundings, just as she felt her own white dress and 
dainty ribbons to be. Presently a peculiar, grating 
sound came to the listeners' ears and an old man 
was wheeled into the room in an invalid’s chair by 
a servant white-haired and portentously solemn. 

“Everything is so old here,” Marjorie thought 
whimsically, “I wonder if the girl will be old, too, 
and, perhaps, have white hair.” 

But her thoughts were distracted from the girl, 
who had not yet appeared, and riveted with a kind 
of terror upon the old man, already before her. 
His pointed chin and hooked nose, his swarthy 
complexion and sneering smile terrified her. He 
sat surveying Marjorie’s mother in silence, and the 
girl noticed that the rich color faded from Mrs. 
Morton’s cheek under the gaze, which she silently 
returned. After a long pause, the old man began, 
in a hissing, sibilant voice that made Marjorie 
tremble : 

“And so, Lucy Watson — or should I say Lucy 
Morton? — you have come at last to see me.” 


Hornby Hall. 


2 3 


“I have come, as you say, to see you,” Mrs. Mor- 
ton responded, “and also to see Mary Pemberton, 
my dead friend’s child.” 

The old man laughed, a low and not unmusical 
laugh. 

“Put it as plainly as you will,” he observed, “that 
seeing me is but the necessary step to seeing the 
child, Mary Pemberton. As, however, you have 
taken this necessary step, your object shall be at- 
tained.” 

He touched a bell which stood near him on a 
table, emitting a sharp, imperative sound, which 
brought the old servant as promptly as though a 
spring had impelled him inside the door. 

“Let Miss Pemberton come here at once — at once, 
I say.” 

The man withdrew and Mary Pemberton ap- 
peared, with an almost magical speed it seemed to 
Marjorie. A queer fancy came into her mind that 
this old man kept all these figures upon springs and 
jerked each one into his presence when he willed. 

To Marjorie’s relief, however, Mary Pemberton 
was not old. An involuntary glance at the new- 
comer’s hair showed it to be of a natural color. 
Her face, indeed, was pale, like that of one un- 
accustomed to the open air, and beside the rich 


24 


Hornby Hall. 


brown of Marjorie’s own cheeks seemed wan. Mar- 
jorie’s eyes turned instantly from the face of the 
girl to that of the picture. There was a curious 
resemblance between the two. It seemed as though 
this living Mary Pemberton were a faded image 
of the brilliant young figure in the ball-dress. 

‘This is Mary Pemberton!” announced the old 
man, transfixing his granddaughter with a look, 
once more giving the impression that he was jerk- 
ing her forward by some secret spring. For she 
moved mechanically to Mrs. Morton’s side. The 
latter took her hand and kissed her. 

“I was your mother’s best friend, my dear,” she 
said. 

The young girl’s face took on a startled ex- 
pression, like that of one awakened from sleep. But 
the old man’s voice jerked her round again till she 
stood facing him, trembling perceptibly as she met 
his cold gaze. 

“She is, if you please, Lucy Morton, unaccus- 
tomed to sentiment. Sentiment is a weed which 
no longer grows at Hornby Hall. We have up- 
rooted it with other noxious plants. Mary Pem- 
berton, shake hands with that child yonder.” 

Mary Pemberton advanced toward Marjorie, 
who felt about as much pleasure in touching her 


Hornby Hall. 


25 


hand as if the girl were a ghost. She seemed a 
part of the mystery, the terror, the eerie tales which 
for more than a generation had spread about the 
countryside. And yet there was a curious interest 
and fascination in watching this young plant of an 
unreal atmosphere, who sat so still in a dingy- 
colored linen frock, neat and fitting well a sym- 
metrical little figure, but unrelieved by any touch 
of color. Mary on her part took in with keenly ob- 
servant eyes every detail of her visitor's dainty 
costume with a curious sickening at heart. Those 
bright-colored ribbons, that soft, becoming white, 
were a revelation to her of possibilities outside the 
walls of Hornby. 

Mr. Pemberton watched the meeting between 
the two girls with a smile that lent a new malignity 
to his face and he noted the dissimilarity in their 
costumes, remarking upon it in a terse sentence : 

“The grub and the butterfly 1” 

Marjorie, usually glib of tongue, did not know 
what to say, especially in presence of the terrible 
grandfather, to this unknown quantity of a child, 
who might have been a century old so far did she 
seem removed from the gay and lighthearted com- 
pany of boys and girls from whom Marjorie had 


come. 


26 


Hornby Hall. 


“Your granddaughter has lived very much 
alone,' ” observed Mrs. Morton. 

The old man’s face clouded on hearing the title 
given the girl. 

“Mary Pemberton has, as you say, lived very 
much alone,” he said. 

“Well, I would like to change all that, if you will 
let me,” Mrs. Morton pleaded. “I would like to 
bring Mary into companionship with other children 
of her own age.” 

“A very doubtful benefit,” commented the old 
man, eyeing Mrs. Morton with his cold stare. 

“I can not agree with you,” Mrs. Morton ex- 
claimed warmly, though, indeed, she had very little 
hope of persuading the old man to permit such 
companionship. Surprises were, however, in store 
for her. 

“Argument, as you may perhaps remember, was 
never tolerated in Hornby Hall,” Mr. Pemberton 
reminded her sternly. 

Mrs. Morton remembered very well that by its 
master at least argument had never been tolerated 
and, oh, the dark tales that had gathered around 
that iron will of his. The autocrat was silent for 
an interval, during which his mind was busy fol- 
lowing out an idea which had come to him when 


Hornby Hall. 


27 


he perceived the contrast between the apparel of 
the two girls and was, moreover, aware that Mary 
saw and felt it. At last he spoke: 

“To prove that Mary Pemberton is not a 
prisoner, as many of you charitable country folk 
have conjectured, and that Hornby Hall is not 
precisely a jail, whatever you may believe to the 
contrary, Mary Pemberton shall accept whatever 
invitation you may see fit to extend to her.” 

Mrs. Morton was silent a moment from sheer 
amazement, while the old man, leaning back in his 
chair, toyed with a pair of gold-rimmed glasses 
suspended around his neck by a black ribbon, and 
regarded her sarcastically. Meanwhile Marjorie 
had entered into conversation with, the strange 
child. 

“Do you go to school ?” she asked. 

Mary Pemberton shook her head. 

“No,” she replied, and there was a wistful tone 
in her voice. This girl, she reflected, who had come 
in from the outer brightness attired like some bril- 
liantly colored bird she had seen flitting about the 
garden, had been to school and had played all her 
life with other children. 

“But how — how do you learn lessons, then?” 
Marjorie asked. 


28 


Hornby Hall. 


“Mrs. Miles teaches me.” 

“Oh, you have a governess!” Marjorie ex- 
claimed, and Mary did not undeceive her, though 
that title could scarce have been applied to the 
woman in question. “Well, it would be nice in 
some ways learning at home, but I think after all 
school is more fun.” 

“I don’t know,” responded Mary Pemberton 
vaguely, and her eyes sought the ground. 

“Mary Pemberton has not experienced the joys 
you speak of, Miss Chatterbox,” observed the old 
man, suddenly addressing Marjorie. She felt or 
fancied she felt a curious, pricking sensation, as if 
a snake had stung her, while her eyes were so at- 
tracted to the hard old face that she felt they 
could never be withdrawn again. Marjorie had not 
known he was listening to her conversation with 
Mary. His attention had been apparently engrossed 
by what her mother was saying. But Mr. Pember- 
ton possessed the faculty of being able to hear two 
or three conversations at the same time. 

“She is therefore quite unlike your modern young 
person,” the grandfather went on, “and I am afraid 
will not prove very amusing to a young lady of 
fashion like yourself.” 

“Marjorie a young lady of fashion!” Mrs. Mor- 


Hornby Hall. 


29 


ton cried, with a laugh which sounded unnatural in 
that gloomy room, /‘oh, you should see her climb- 
ing a tree or running a race with her cousin.” 

“Ah !” said the old man, “I am afraid Mary Pem- 
berton will be left still farther behind in those 
achievements. She lias not been permitted any 
such unfeminine performances. She has been ac- 
customed to measure her steps at Hornby Hall, to 
obey without question, to abstain from unseemly 
amusements, and in general to order herself by the 
laws that prevail here. The breaking of a law 
brings swift punishment and Mary has learned that 
the way of the transgressor is hard.” 

He laughed the same mirthless laugh and looked 
at Mary, who sat motionless with eyes cast down, 
as though by any sudden movement or by an un- 
guarded glance she might make herself amenable 
to those unwritten, but ever present laws. 

“When can she come?” Mrs. Morton asked 
shortly. Her old dislike for the man was rising 
within her so strong that she could no longer 
dissemble. 

“I perceive that I have lost nothing of my old at- 
traction for you, my dear Lucy Watson,” laughed 
Mr. Pemberton, “but in answer to your inquiry I 
may say that the ogre will permit the maiden to es- 


30 


Hornby Hall. 


cape as early as to-morrow, which is, I believe, 
Saturday; and to prove how completely he has 
relaxed his grip, you may keep her, if you are so 
minded, for a week.” 

Mrs. Morton could hardly believe her ears and 
Marjorie was delighted at the idea of a new com- 
panion, even though she was one so different from 
ordinary girls. So she whispered to Mary, quite 
gleefully, and almost as if the old man were not 
there : 

“Oh, won’t it be nice to have you come to our 
house for a whole week. I have such a lot of things 
to show you!” 

Mary seemed dazed and did not- answer. Mr. 
Pemberton, touching the spring again by addressing 
her, caused the girl to face him, mechanically: 

“Do you hear, Mary Pemberton?” he said. “You 
are to bid Mrs. Miles get you ready for to-morrow. 
You will go from here at four o’clock in the after- 
noon and remain till that day week at precisely the 
same hour. See that you are not a minute late, do 
you hear? I will wait for you with my watch in 
my hand.” 

Mary Pemberton only bent her head, but all 
present knew that the words were engraven on her 
mind, to be obeyed with the utmost exactitude. 


Hornby Hall. 


3i 


“Don’t speak to me on the subject, and don’t let 
me see your face again till you come back,” com- 
manded Mr. Pemberton. “Shake hands with the 
visitors and go instantly to Mrs. Miles.” 

She did as directed, gliding at once from the 
room after giving her hand to each of the guests. 
They were now standing up to go and Mr. Pem- 
berton gave Mrs. Morton two icy fingertips. 

“You will, I know, relax all discipline,” he said, 
“and put into the girl’s mind sentiment and the sense 
of color, which are mischievous. They are banished 
from Hornby Hall, with other pernicious things 
which deceive and blind the young especially to the 
actual barrenness and dreariness of life. But I am 
not afraid to make the experiment. The discipline 
of Hornby will soon pluck up all such weeds. Mrs. 
Miles can be trusted for that.” 

He laughed again, that laugh which was not good 
to hear. 

“I myself do not interfere. I neither punish nor 
reward. I never praise and but seldom condemn. 
But I am convinced that Mary Pemberton will better 
understand what discipline means when she has been 
for a sufficient time surrounded by color and senti- 
ment. The young are best taught by contrasts.” 

Mrs. Morton looked at him with a feeling of 


Hornby Hall. 


3 2 

deadly repulsion, as though he were some adder 
which crossed her path. This visit, this holiday, 
then, was to serve as a new species of torment, a 
wholesome discipline. Still, even a week would be 
something, an oasis in a desert life. 

“I desire her to grow up in a certain groove,” 
Mr. Pemberton said, noticing and appraising at its 
full value Mrs. Morton’s glance, which gratified 
him, as an acknowledgment of power. “She will, 
then, be free, I fancy, from vicissitudes, free from 
certain tendencies to pleasure and excitement, to 
gay apparel and cheerful company, which have 
mocked some lives within these very walls. She will 
expect little of life and get, of course, nothing.” 

For one brief instant a feeling akin to pity entered 
into Mrs. Morton’s mind. There was a suggestion 
of pathos, of the sad shipwreck which had befallen 
this man of commanding gifts, and almost a note 
of explanation or of self- justification. But his icy 
words of farewell and the chill of his personality 
seemed to follow the mother and daughter out into 
the warm air full of life and colored sweetness. 

“I am afraid of him!” Marjorie murmured, as 
she clung close to her mother in the carriage. “He 
is like one of those dreadful old men in fairy-tales, 
and oh, poor, poor Mary.” 


Hornby Hall. 


33 


The homeward drive was a silent one, but as 
they drew near the cheerful dwelling of brick, Mar- 
jorie said aloud : “I shall never be able to make the 
girls and boys understand what it is like at 
Hornby. ,, 


CHAPTER III. 


MARJORIE DESCRIBES HER VISIT. 

T he charmed circle of girls and boys who were 
privileged to assemble in the pleasant field 
dignified by the high-sounding name of Mayfair 
had gathered early on that particular evening to 
hear of Marjorie’s visit to the Pembertons. And there 
were many more who would have liked to hear the 
recital, for the news had gone through the village 
like wild-fire that Mrs. Morton had gone with her 
young daughter to call at Hornby Hall. Her car- 
riage had been watched by many curious eyes till 
it disappeared up the long, straight avenue with 
rows of poplars to the great, staring, white-walled 
house, so long a center of mysteries for the village. 
The circumstance had set all the elders a-talking. 
Not only the gentlefolk, who numbered about a 
dozen families in all, but also John Tobin, who kept 
the Riverside Hotel, an old resident and a man of 
mark after his own fashion, and Jeremiah O’Meara, 
the baker, who had come straight from Tipperary 
to this green village in the heart of the Pennsyl- 
34 


Marjorie Describes Her Visit. 35 

vania hills, and had served bread and rolls and 
cake to gentle and simple alike during a period of 
thirty years. 

These had much to say about the visit of that 
afternoon and the memories to which it gave rise; 
and so had the widow McBain, a Scotchwoman, 
who sold needles and thread and other small wares 
in a very small shop which was a local headquarters 
for gossip; and William McTeague, the general 
dealer, and Maurice Burke, the carpenter, and Jim 
Waller, the cobbler. They formed a coterie of 
oldest inhabitants, and meeting, though not at May- 
fair, they recalled every old story, whether true or 
false, which had been in circulation during a score 
or more of years. 

Marjorie, however, had her audience, consisting 
of her own particular little set : the Lewis girls and 
Dolly Martin, who was Marjorie’s chum at school 
and walked back and forth with her during ten 
calendar months of the year. Dolly was a plain, 
freckled, tall girl, in marked contrast to pretty 
Marie Lewis, but she was very clever at her studies 
and, because of unfailing good humor, a general 
favorite. There was also a thin, dark-faced girl, 
who had a decidedly Jewish cast of countenance, 
though she was an American by birth and, like the 


3 6 Marjorie Describes Her Visit. 

others, a Catholic in creed. Her name was Kitty 
Hogan. 

The Wallace boys and Luke Morris came run- 
ning up the road out of breath, so eager were they 
to hear the news; after them came Hugh Graham, 
a shy, sandy-complexioned boy, tall for his age and 
reticent of speech. He in turn was followed by 
Jack, and Dick Dalton, who vaulted over the fence 
instead of entering by the gate. Dick, by accident 
or design, tripped up Jack, who went sprawling 
almost at Marie Lewis’ feet. He rose making a 
wry face, but put on his best college manner, which 
Marjorie so much disliked. 

“I beg your pardon, Miss Marie,” he said, with 
quite a lofty air. 

“I hope you’re not hurt,” said Marie, with a 
look of concern from her blue eyes which was quite 
melting and made the other girls giggle. 

“Oh, not at all,” Jack answered her, stepping 
aside to administer a sly kick to Dick Dalton, who 
already was plying Marjorie with questions. 

“There’s not so very much to tell after all,” Mar- 
jorie declared slowly. She sat under the spreading 
oak, with her tangled curls waving in the breeze 
and the departing sun shedding a glory about her 
face. She seemed like some priestess of old with 


Marjorie Describes Her Visit. 3, 

her circle of disciples round her eagerly hanging on 
the words of their oracle. Jack’s eager eyes were 
fixed upon her face as he sat upon the grass at her 
feet side by side with Dick, while the other boys 
pressed around in a circle and the girls occupied 
the bench with Marjorie in a variety of attitudes, 
all expressive of eager attention. 

“We drove up the avenue to the door,” Marjorie 
began, with due solemnity, “and Jerry got down 
and rang. The bell sounded just fearful, echoing 
through the halls, and then — ” 

Marjorie paused, overcome by the recollection. 

“What?” cried Jack. “Girls take so long to tell 
a story.” 

“Shut up, Jack!” cried Dick emphatically if not 
politely. 

“Then,” continued Marjorie, taking no notice of 
the interruption, “an old woman opened the door. 
Very old she seemed to be, with crinkled white hair 
and a face that looked as if it had been white- 
washed.” 

“Oh!” burst from several of the girls. There 
seemed something specially ghastly in the idea. 

“When we went into a very dark room, with a 
high ceiling and dull paper on the wall, Mr. Pem- 
berton was wheeled in. He is old too, and white- 


38 Marjorie Describes Her Visit. 

haired, and the servant who pushed the chair had 
white hair too, and then, and then — Mr. Pemberton 
was rather terrible.” 

“Terrible!” cried a chorus. “How? What did 
he say?” 

“It wasn’t even what he said,” Marjorie ex- 
plained, “but his voice and his awful eyes and his 
dark face.” 

The girls were fairly awestruck ; the boys in their 
interest bent forward upon one another’s shoulders. 

“Stop shoving, there!” cried Jack. “You can 
hear just as well without breaking my collarbone.” 

“Keep still, Jack!” shouted Dick. “We want to 
hear. What did he say?” 

“Oh, a lot of disagreeable things. He made me 
feel as if I had touched a snake. And then Mary 
came in.” 

“What is she like, Marjorie?” cried the Lewis 
girls. “She must be very queer living in that awful 
place.” 

“Do you think she is afraid of that dreadful old 
man?” Dolly asked in a hushed whisper, as if the 
being so described might be somewhere within 
hearing. 

Marjorie answered both questions together. 

“She seemed a good deal like a wooden doll, and 


Marjorie Describes Her Visit. 39 

a doll wouldn’t show fear,” declared Marjorie; 
“but I’m sure she is afraid. She’s coming to- 
morrow, though, and you’ll see !” 

“Oh, Marjorie!” cried the girls. 

“You don’t mean that she’s coming here, to May- 
fair?” broke from Jack. 

“She’s coming to our house, not to the field,” 
answered Marjorie. “You do ask stupid questions 
sometimes, Jack, though you are in philosophy. Is 
that what you call your class?” 

“You wouldn’t understand if I told you,” re- 
torted Jack; “girls never learn any of those things.” 

“Well, they don’t want to, anyway,” snapped 
Marjorie. 

“Do stop scrapping with Jack and get on with 
your story, Marjorie,” interposed Dick. 

“There’s not much more to tell. Mother says 
Mary has had a lonely, miserable life. So you must 
all be nice to her. Some of your fine college airs 
will do for her, Jack, because she seems almost 
grown-up.” 

Jack reddened, catching Marie Lewis’ eye. 

“I’m glad to hear she has some sense,” replied 
Jack; “we have too many kids around here as 
it is.” 

“I don’t know whether she has sense or not!” 


40 Marjorie Describes Her Visit. 

cried Marjorie. “All grown-up people are not 
sensible, any more than boys that pretend to be.” 

“Oh, do stop, Marjorie,” urged Dick; “we want 
to hear you tell us about this girl. You’re all right 
so long as you don’t get sparring with Jack.” 

Madge, gratified by this bit of flattery from her 
cousin Dick, who was, perhaps, the most popular 
boy in Ironton, went on with her story : 

“Mary Pemberton is to stay a week and we must 
do all we can to make her enjoy herself.” 

“We’ll give her a good time!” cried Dick; “won’t 
we, Jack?” 

“The best we know how,” agreed his chum, “but 
say, Marjorie, is the girl good-looking or jolly?” 

“Oh, what do looks matter?” objected Dick. 
“And she can’t be very jolly living in a hole like 
that with that old beast. Marjorie said she was a 
good deal like a doll.” 

“Well, we’ll stir her up a bit,” declared Jack. 
“What do you think, Miss Marie? Ironton’s a 
pretty good place to have fun in?” 

“I’m sure we like it,” said Marie, smiling at 
him in her sweet-tempered way ; “don’t we, 
Florence?” 

Florence assented somewhat hastily. She was 
busy questioning Madge on her own account. 


Marjorie Describes Her Visit. 41 

“You didn’t see anything strange or hear any 
queer sounds ?” she asked. 

“I certainly didn’t hear anything at all except old 
Mr. Pemberton’s voice and a few words from 
Mary, and I saw only what I told you — white-haired 
people with pale faces.” 

“But was the house different from other places — 
inside, I mean?” 

“It was dark and rather dreary,” Marjorie 
declared, letting her thoughts go back over the in- 
cidents of her short visit; “there was a very big 
hall, with a winding staircase like those we read 
of in books, and a great clock, but I think it was 
stopped; and the room we were in was dark and 
rather ghostly too.” 

“We must find out what kind of girl this Mary 
Pemberton really is,” observed practical Dolly Mar- 
tin, “before we can arrange any plans for her enter- 
tainment.” 

During Marjorie’s description of the house Dolly 
had been in conference with the boys on this very 
subject, for each of them had been suggesting some- 
thing which might be done to enliven the time of 
Mary’s visit. 

“You see,” she went on, “she may like grown-up 
things and not care at all for out-door games. She 


42 


Marjorie Describes Her Visit. 


may not like Mayfair as well as we do, and she may 
not want to go climbing fences and getting her 
frocks torn in the woods.” 

“If she’s such a muff as that,” grumbled Luke 
Morris, “I wish she’d stay at home. It will be a week 
wasted and the summer vacation’s short enough.” 

“Can’t you tell us something about her?” in- 
quired Jack. 

“Just as much as you could tell what was behind 
a mask,” Marjorie declared, proud of her distinction 
as story-teller. 

“Well, it will be rather exciting to find out what 
is behind the mask,” observed quiet Hugh Graham. 

“I bet she won’t be much fun!” pronounced Ned 
Wallace. 

“She’ll be a regular wet blanket, I know,” added 
Luke, the grumbler. 

“Shame, Luke,” reproved Hugh, “it’s mean to 
talk about a girl like that and especially before you 
know anything about her.” 

And Hugh flushed up to the roots of his sandy 
hair, as he spoke thus generously in defence of 
the absent. 

“She may be as nice as anything,” volunteered 
George Wallace, “because everything will be new 
to her.” 


Marjorie Describes Her Visit. 


43 


“Whether she’s fun or not,” said Jack, the 
autocrat, “we’ve got to do the best we can to make 
her feel at home.” 

All agreed with this sentiment, and Marjorie, re- 
verting to a previous question, declared thought- 
fully: 

“As for her looks, she’s a good deal like the 
picture.” 

“What picture?” cried Jack. “If that isn’t like 
a girl!” 

“The picture that was in the room where we 
sat,” Marjorie explained, ignoring Jack’s insinua- 
tion. “It was Mary Pemberton’s mother. But she 
was young, very young, wearing a ball-dress and 
carrying a bunch of roses in her hands.” 

“Does your mother remember that lady dressed 
like that and looking young?” asked Hugh, who 
had imagination. 

“Yes, mother says she remembers the younger 
Mrs. Pemberton looking exactly like that at a ball 
in that very house.” 

“A ball at Hornby ?” sniffed Dick. “Why, Mar- 
jorie, you’re stuffing us.” 

“Ask mother, if you don’t believe me!” 

“Why, I thought it was always shut up, like a 
jail,” added Luke Morris. 


44 Marjorie Describes Her Visit. 

“I don't think it was, long ago,” Marjorie 
declared. 

“It's a wonder the old ogre lets the girl out now,” 
Jack observed thoughtfully, plucking a dandelion 
to pieces. 

“He called himself an ogre!” cried Marjorie, 
laughing at the recollection, “and he is like one.” 

“Every one says he keeps Miss Mary shut up,” 
went on Jack, “and only lets her out into the garden 
about three or four times a year.” 

“Oh, come now, Jack, draw it mild!” objected 
Dick; “I guess he lets her out every day. But the 
garden's a rum sort of place — nothing except 
thistles and dog-weed grow there.” 

“I saw it more than once when I was a boy,” 
began Jack. 

“When you were a boy!” interrupted Marjorie, 
with a disdainful sniff. 

“Yes, about your age, Marjorie,” Jack went on, 
coolly, “do you remember, Dick?” 

“Yes, you got up on my shoulder the first time 
we went to look over the wall, and you were so 
scared that you tumbled down and never gave me 
my turn to look over.” 

“Rot !” cried Jack, reddening. “I saw the old chap 
there and I didn’t want him to begin jawing at me.” 


Marjorie Describes Her Visit. 45 

“You said it looked like a churchyard and gave 
you a chill !” persisted Dick. 

“I was a youngster then, and I suppose I had 
fancies like other kids,” explained Jack, “eh, Mar- 
jorie?” 

“You hadn’t any like me,” cried Marjorie, 
quickly, “because you’re altogether different. 
You’re always thinking about yourself, for one 
thing.” 

“They say children and fools speak the truth,” 
declared Dick, with a grin ; “so, that’s one for you, 
Jack, old fellow.” 

Jack didn’t take a joke as well as some of the 
others, but there was nothing to be said, so he 
turned to find consolation in Marie’s little lady- 
like sentences and Florence’s good-fellowship. 

And they all sat a while longer, as the lingering 
summer gloaming turned into night, and the stars 
began to shine out, with a mellow, golden radiance, 
in the deep blue overhead. They fell into a pleasant 
talk after that, from which all strife, even of jest, 
was banished, and into their minds came the dreams 
half-melancholy, half-joyous, which beset the path 
of youth. Shadows or premonitions of the 
events that are to make up each dawning life. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE COMING OF MARY PEMBERTON. 

M arjorie was dressed early the next afternoon 
and out upon the steps, awaiting the ar- 
rival of her visitor. It seemed to her that the day 
was very long and that the appointed hour would 
never come. The old man had mentioned four 
o’clock, and Marjorie knew that Mary would be 
punctual; but she was not sure whether the little 
girl would leave Hornby Hall at the time named 
or arrive at their house. She remembered, with a 
shiver, the old man’s expression as he had declared 
that Mary was to return home again the same 
day and hour in the following week. 

At length the time drew near when the expected 
visitor should arrive; Mary left Hornby Hall pre- 
cisely at four o’clock and the half-hour which it 
took her to reach the Mortons’ gate was to the 
impatient Marjorie the longest she had ever known. 

46 


The Coming of Mary Pemberton. 47 

She began even to fear that at the last moment Mr. 
Pemberton had kept his grandchild at home. At 
precisely half past four there was the sound of 
wheels coming rapidly up the road, a great cloud 
of dust, and Marjorie, with beating heart, saw 
such a carriage approaching as could have belonged 
only to the Pembertons. It was black and dingy, 
and suggested nothing so much as a prison van 
which Marjorie had once seen in a great city. Such 
as it was, it came on with sureness to the gate and, 
turning in, drove round the pleasant carriage drive, 
gay with its borders of flowers. 

In this strange vehicle sat Mary Pemberton, pale 
and evidently bewildered. She was dressed in a 
dull brown frock; her hair was drawn tight back 
from her face in a most unyouthful fashion. But 
Marjorie clapped her hands for glee at the first 
sight of Mary, and ran down to open the carriage 
door. As a consequence of this impulsive move- 
ment, the old white-haired coachman remained 
motionless in his seat. Jerry came from the stable- 
yard and removed from the back of the carriage 
a large valise. Then the old coachman solemnly 
touched his hat and drove his lumbering van out 
the gate, leaving Mary bewildered at the foot 
of the steps. She stood still and looked about her — 


48 The Coming of Mary Pemberton. 

looked at the flowers in the beds, and the broad, 
open field on the opposite side of the road, which 
served as a meeting-place for the small circle of 
boys and girls who were almost daily associates. 
They called the place Mayfair, for some unknown 
reason, and in Mayfair a certain number were even 
then assembled to watch this marvelous arrival. 

Mary at length drew a deep breath as one long 
shut up in a dungeon might have done when 
restored to the light of day. Then she turned to 
Marjorie and spoke the strangest and yet the most 
natural words: 

“I don’t think I can ever go back there !” 

“What will you do?” inquired Marjorie, awe- 
stricken but sympathetic. “They will come to get 
you.” 

A frightened look passed over Mary’s face, as 
she said wearily : 

“It is no use my saying I won’t go back, for, of 
course, I shall be forced to go.” 

“You might hide somewhere,” suggested Mar- 
jorie, doubtfully. 

“Mrs. Miles would find me anywhere,” declared 
Mary, turning still paler, as if the search had al- 
ready begun. 

“Who is Mrs. Miles?” Marjorie asked, breath- 


The Coming of Mary Pemberton. 49 

lessly. She remembered how the old man had 
uttered that name. 

“Ah, she is — ” began Mary, checking herself ab- 
ruptly with a shudder. “Perhaps she will hear 
even here.” 

Marjorie looked around her uneasily. It was 
quite like living in a story-book with evil 
enchanters or wicked fairies. Decidedly this 
strange girl had brought a new and mysterious at- 
mosphere into Marjorie’s happy but somewhat 
prosaic life. At that moment Mrs. Morton ap- 
peared upon the steps. 

“Welcome, Mary, welcome, my dear, for your 
dead mother’s sake and for your own.” 

As she kissed her, she added: 

“Forget all your troubles for this one week, at 
least. Try not to remember that you have any.” 

“But after that?” inquired Mary, fixing a pair 
of solemn eyes upon Mrs. Morton. 

“After that, who knows ? Something may 
happen,” cried Marjorie; “don’t let us lose a minute 
of your time here. I have so much to show you 
and all the girls and boys want to know you and 
we’re going to do all sorts of jolly things while 
you stay.” 

Marjorie was rather breathless from talking so 


50 The Coming of Mary Pemberton. 

last, but she held Mary’s hand in hers and led 
her up to a pretty room, next to Marjorie’s own. 
It had pink and white curtains, a chiffonier of the 
same colors, a long mirror in a bright frame, half 
a dozen pictures, and an atmosphere of brightness 
such as Mary had never breathed. She looked 
about her with much the same bewildered air as 
she had worn on alighting from the carriage. Her 
face twitched as if from pain, and the tears forced 
themselves from her eyes and fell down her cheeks 
to her ugly, dingy ff rock. 

“We will never let you go back!” cried Marjorie 
impulsively. “You can just let Mr. .Pemberton 
keep his old money and everything and if Mrs. 
Miles comes here — well, I’ll get the boys to throw 
stones at her.” 

This was an awful threat but it made Mary 
laugh in the midst of her tears. 

“You don’t know Mrs. Miles!” she cried. A 
young maid came in to open the valise, which 
Jerry had brought up, and to know if there was 
anything else she could do. Pleasant bright faces 
everywhere. The gloom and darkness and dreari- 
ness all gone, and color, gay, bright color all 
around. Marjorie left Mary for a little while to 
give her an opportunity to change her clothes, bid- 


The Coming of Mary Pemberton. 51 

ding her come down to the front steps just as 
soon as she was ready. Mary’s sallow face grew 
red as she turned over her dingy frocks. She had 
not even so much as a ribbon with which to brighten 
them up. And yet she was only a girl, with a 
girl’s natural love of pretty things. The feeling 
had begun to awaken within her the moment she 
had stepped out of the Pemberton carriage, in 
sight of the gay-colored flower beds. She sighed 
as she brushed out her long hair, which was glossy 
and abundant. She never thought of letting it fall 
loose about her, after the fashion of Marjorie’s. 
She braided it up very tightly, as Mrs. Miles had 
instructed her to do, drawing it back from the 
temples. The eyes that looked out of the pale face 
were soft brown, like those of the picture, with 
yellow lights in them. The mouth was large and 
the nose somewhat out of proportion, defects which 
were also visible in the portrait. 

Having completed her toilet, Mary went slowly 
downstairs. She paused on the broad landing to 
stare out from the cheerful window, shaded by 
bright-hued curtains and giving view upon a lovely 
garden, so unlike that dreary spot which the girl 
had known by that name. On the staircase walls 
hung pictures, before each of which Mary paused. 


52 The Coming of Mary Pemberton. 

Everything here was a revelation to her. At last 
she reached the outer steps, where Marjorie sat 
impatiently waiting. 

“Oh, ist that you, Mary, at last?” she cried. 
“Come and sit down a minute till we decide what 
we shall do first.” 

Mary seated herself beside Marjorie, but it did 
not take her very long to decide what she would 
prefer to do. 

“I would like to go into the garden,” she said, 
“if it's all the same to you.” 

This decision came partly from force of habit, 
for almost the only pleasure in the girl’s dull life, 
hitherto, had been her daily walks in that dreary 
patch of ground dignified by the name of garden 
at Hornby Hall. But it also came from the 
glimpses which Mary had had from the stair win- 
dow of delightful paths, winding amongst glowing 
masses of variegated color, which had made the 
Mortons’ garden seem like some enchanted region. 

“We’ll go there first,” cried Marjorie, “and, 
then, I want you to see my pony. You may ride 
him some day, if you’re not afraid ; and the rabbits 
and the new piggies in the farmyard behind the 
stables, and my own big dog, Nero. He’s just 
splendid.” 


The Coming of Mary Pemberton. 53 

Talking thus, Marjorie reached the garden gate 
and presently the two found themselves amongst 
the glories of rose-laden bushes, pink and white 
and yellow and deep crimson. Carnations were 
there in clustering masses, and tulips made rich 
spots of color, while lilies of the valley, hyacinths, 
heliotrope, and sweet pea, vied with each other in 
perfuming the atmosphere. A garden, indeed, is 
a wonderful place even to the ordinary observer, 
but to this child it was as a new Eden, the dawn- 
ing of a new world. 

‘Tick as many flowers as you like,” Marjorie 
exclaimed, “for the gardener says it’s better for 
the bushes.” 

“Pick them?” echoed Mary in amazement. “Do 
you mean that I can pluck them off the bushes?” 

She had not thought it possible to so much as 
touch one of these radiant objects. At Hornby it 
had been a crime to pick so much as a leaf from a 
tree. Once Mrs. Miles had come up suddenly be- 
hind the girl and had bent her fingers backward till 
she screamed with pain, for the simple offence of 
touching the soft, green leaves of a young tree. 
The tree had shot up unaccountably, as is some- 
times the case, and had seemed to thrive in the un- 
promising soil. Mary had loved it as if it were 


54 The Coming of Mary Pemberton. 

a living thing. But after that occurrence Mrs. 
Miles caused the tree to be uprooted, and the tender 
green of the leaves met the tired eyes no more. 

“I think I will take one of these,” Mary ventured, 
pointing to a dark red rose with heart of fire. The 
vivid coloring charmed her. 

“Take a lot, as many as you like!” cried Mar- 
jorie. “And wait, I’m going to fasten a bunch of 
them in your frock. They will look so well against 
the brown.” 

Mary blushed, partly with mortification at the 
plain appearance of her dress, partly with pleasure 
at Marjorie’s idea, and she readily submitted to be 
decorated by her new friend with some of the 
choicest of the red roses. 

“I would like to let down your hair,” went on 
Marjorie, emboldened by the success of her first 
experiment; “oh, may I, please? it is such a pretty 
color. It will show so much better if I shake it 
out loose.” 

Mary drew back, at first, in terror. What if 
Mrs. Miles should see her with loosened hair and 
roses at her throat? But she remembered presently 
that it was scarcely possible for Mrs. Miles to see 
her in the Mortons’ garden, and she gave a sigh 
of relief. 


The Coming of Mary Pemberton. 55 

“You are free here and can do as you please,” 
urged Marjorie. Mary hesitated for only another 
minute; then she sat down upon a garden bench 
and let Marjorie unfasten her hair. Down it came 
rippling and shimmering over the brown frock, 
amid many exclamations of delight from Marjorie. 

“Oh, you are such a dear, and you do look so 
pretty now,” cried the impulsive girl. 

“Pretty, oh, no!” objected Mary. 

“Yes, you do look pretty, doesn’t she, papa?” 
repeated Marjorie, appealing suddenly to a man 
who just then came toward the two girls. 

Mary started to her feet in terror, while the man 
stood looking. She had not yet got over the habit 
of being terrified. 

“Eh, what?” said the newcomer, advancing 
nearer. “What did you say, Marjorie, and who 
is this?” 

Before Marjorie could say a word he answered 
his own question. 

“Bless my soul, I need not ask. Come and give me 
a kiss, Mary ; your mother was my dearest cousin.” 

“Cousin!” cried Marjorie, astonished; “I never, 
never knew Mary was a relation of ours.” 

“Yes, she is,” declared Mr. Morton, “and, egad, 
how the years do pass. I saw you a toddling 


56 The Coming of Mary Pemberton. 

infant and now you are just Bessie over again, 
eyes and hair and all.” He mentally added : “Only 
not so pretty.” For Bessie, though no beauty in 
reality, had been beautiful in the eyes of her boy 
cousin, who had dearly loved her. 

“And you have come to make a long stay, I 
hope.” 

“Just a week, sir,” Mary answered. Though not 
shy, she was more timid with Mr. Morton than 
with either Marjorie or her mother. 

“A week, and then to go back to Hornby?” Mr. 
Morton exclaimed. “We must see if we can not 
get a commutation of sentence.” 

He laughed and presently added: 

“We must really turn the week into a month, if 
any magic can do it. Meanwhile, Marjorie, take 
good care of my little cousin. Let her have all the 
amusement she wants, and, of course, she must 
have some pocket-money.” 

Mary blushed. She had never handled a penny 
in her life. 

“Old men like your grandfather forget they were 
ever young,” went on Mr. Morton, “but I know 
what it is to be left short of funds. So, my dear, 
you’ll have to let Cousin Harry play fairy god- 
father, or he won’t be pleased at all.”* 


The Coming of Mary Pemberton. 57 

So saying, Mr. Morton took from bis pocket a 
couple of bills and forced them into the girl’s hand. 

“You may want them in some of the frolics 
which Marjorie is going to get up,” he observed; 
“money always helps along the fun.” 

He stood thoughtfully a moment with his hands 
in his pockets, then suddenly roused himself from 
the reverie to say: 

“I remember, as if it were yesterday, when your 
grandmother, dear old soul, tipped me when I 
went to spend my Christmas at Hornby. Dear me ! 
Dear me!” 

As Mr. Morton spoke, the selfsatne thing 
happened as before in the room upstairs. The big 
tears streamed down Mary’s cheeks, falling upon 
her dull frock. 

“What, you don’t mind, I hope!” cried Mr. 
Morton, in consternation. “And you will keep the 
bills?” 

“Oh, no, I don’t mind,” cried Mary; “it isn’t 
that at all. I will keep the money, because I know 
you want me to do that and I will be happy for 
this week, at least.” 

“That’s right,” said Mr. Morton, a little uneasy 
at this outburst, “and I’m to be your banker if you 
want any girl’s fixings.” 


58 The Coming of Mary Pemberton. 

As Mr. Morton passed on, Mary stood fingering 
the bills and smiling softly after the retreating 
figure: 

“You ought to be very happy, living with people 
like that,” . she said to Marjorie. 

“So I am,” agreed Marjorie, “except when I 
get cross sometimes and imagine that the world’s 
all upside down.” 


CHAPTER V. 


MARY IS INTRODUCED TO MAYFAIR. 

T here was intense curiosity amongst the May- 
fair boys and girls, as they called themselves, 
to see the new arrival. Any one from Hornby was 
a novelty not to be ignored and Ironton, like other 
villages, was ever on the lookout for anything new. 
So that many of the folk who made up its popu- 
lation found they had business in the direction of 
the Morton house that evening and passed there 
in groups, keeping sharp eyes open for a glimpse 
of the girl who had been kept so many years a 
virtual prisoner at Hornby. Why, even the ticket- 
of-leave man who had passed through the village 
a few days before was not a greater curiosity, and 
every boy had managed to interview him and every 
girl had peeped at him from secure places, while 
59 


60 Mary is Introduced to Mayfair. 

their elders had stared curiously at the poor 
wretch. 

Popular sentiment being thus aroused in that 
rustic corner of the world, it is little wonder that 
the frequenters of Mayfair, which was the private 
property of the Mortons and could not be tres- 
passed upon, felt themselves privileged indeed, and 
awaited with eager anticipation the coming 
amongst them of the newly released. 

While they waited, Jack and Dick, who were 
older and had heard more of the local gossip, enter- 
tained the others and especially the Lewis girls, 
who were newcomers, by rehearsing all the old 
tales, some of them blood-curdling and, of course, 
many false, which were told of Hornby Hall. So 
that it was as well the sun was shining and the 
birds singing on that lovely afternoon of Mary's 
coming, or there would have been shivers and 
shakes amongst the girls, and possibly some of the 
boys would have run home a little more swiftly 
than usually and declined to linger in lonely 
spots. 

“I guess Jack and I were pretty thoroughly 
scared one night when we went around there," 
honest Dick declared, winding up a thrilling nar- 
rative : “I tell you, we cut out and ran for it." 


Mary is Introduced to Mayfair. 6i 

“But I thought boys were never afraid,” put in 
Marie Lewis sweetly, “I thought it was only 
girls.” 

“Not all girls!” corrected Dick. “Marjorie is 
as plucky as any boy. It would be pretty hard to 
frighten her, but I guess even she would be afraid 
at Hornby.” 

“It wasn’t exactly that we were afraid,” Jack 
explained; “it was just a sort of nervous feeling 
that came over us near that old rookery. There’s 
such lots of stories about the place. Some say it’s 
haunted, others that there was a murder committed 
there long ago.” 

“A murder!” cried Marie Lewis. “How per- 
fectly dreadful!” 

“Hush!” whispered Dick, “they’re coming.” 

Jack’s eager eyes turned upon the two figures 
just coming forth from the Mortons’ gate. His 
own curiosity overcame his desire still further to 
interest and terrify the city girl beside him. For 
her smart clothes and young lady airs appealed to 
him more than to any other boy in Ironton. He 
got to his feet with his companions, who were all 
assembled now. All eyes were turned upon the 
sallow face and slender figure of Mary Pemberton. 

“Not so bad-looking after all,” Dick whispered. 


62 Mary is Introduced to Mayfair. 

The crimson roses and the excitement had given 
color to the dark face and the eyes were glowing, 
too, with the influence of the new, happy life 
around her. 

“She looks somewhat different from what I ex- 
pected,” replied Jack in the same low voice, “and 
from — the rest of the girls.” 

He spoke slowly, meditatively, and Mary Pem- 
berton having drawn near caught the boy’s gaze 
fixed upon her. She did not smile, but regarded 
him gravely and silently. Her eyes travelled from 
him to Dicky Dalton, who felt a sudden chivalrous 
pity for the poor maiden escaped for this brief holi- 
day from the ogre. She next fixed her glance of 
quiet scrutiny upon Hugh Graham, who flushed 
uncomfortably under it, and upon the three other 
boys, who stood leaning over one another’s shoul- 
ders to get a good look at her. Marjorie, leading 
her forward, introduced her first to the girls, who 
all greeted her effusively, offering her a seat 
amongst them on the bench and holding her hand, 
each in turn, while warm-hearted Dollie Martin 
put an arm about her. Then it came the turn of 
the boys to be severally presented to her. She 
again observed them with a gaze of deliberate ob- 
servation. Then she turned to Marjorie, with a 


Mary is Introduced to Mayfair. 63 

laugh which was low and tremulous, for laughter 
was new to her though she had inherited from her 
mother a keen sense of humor. 

“I never saw a boy before/’ she remarked, “and 
they certainly are odd-looking!” 

The boys looked at one another uncomfortably. 
Even Jack was disconcerted and the others shifted 
uneasily from one foot to the other. It was so 
singular, this being inspected by a creature who 
had never seen a boy before. 

“You,” she said, addressing Jack, “are quite 
tall, almost a man.” 

This speech tickled Dick so much that he nearly 
choked in trying not to laugh aloud. He regained 
his composure only by a mighty effort which left 
him red in the face. 

“I wonder,” Mary said next, with the same calm 
air of one desiring information, “why boys should 
wear anything so very tight and high around their 
necks. It must be very uncomfortable, especially 
in hot weather.” 

Her remark was directed with special reference 
to Jack, who looked wrathfully around, and seeing 
Dick convulsed with laughter managed to give him 
a kick. Marjorie clapped her hands in delight and 
laughed outright. 


6 \ Mary is Introduced to Mayfair. 

“Oh, Mary!” she cried, “Jack is awfully proud 
of his high collar; he thinks it makes him a man.” 

“Do you?” inquired Mary, fixing her grave eyes 
steadily upon Jack. She had no thought of turning 
him into ridicule, and when the boy’s keen glance 
had told him that such was the case, he answered 
her with the air of good-humored patronage he 
always used to girls : 

“Marjorie will always have her joke. You 
mustn’t mind her. She’s such a kid.” 

“A kid?” Mary repeated, looking around help- 
lessly at Marjorie. 

The boys, with the exception of Jack, were all 
laughing by this time and engaged in various ex- 
pedients to conceal the fact. They had never heard 
any one talk like this girl before and it struck them 
as so very droll that they simply could not restrain 
their merriment. 

“Mary doesn’t know any slang,” said Marjorie; 
“I don’t suppose she knows even what slang is.” 

“I know hardly anything,” said poor Mary, look- 
ing piteously round upon the group, and again the 
tears came from her eyes and rolled down her 
cheeks, “I have lived so differently from any one 
of you.” 

Let it be set down to the credit of the Mayfair 


Mary is Introduced to Mayfair. 65 

boys and girls that the smiles vanished from their 
faces. Every boy present was, moreover, ready 
from that moment to be her champion and, as they 
expressed it, “to punch any fellow’s head that had 
a word to say against her.” 

“Never mind, Mary,” spoke out Dick, “we can 
soon tell you whatever you want to know and we’re 
all going to have a jolly time together this week, 
anyway.” 

Mary’s face brightened. 

“Everything here is lovely and I know I shall 
like every one of you,” she said, more impulsively 
than one would have supposed she could have 
spoken. “If only you knew what it is to see the 
world for the first time.” 

This was a view of the case which had not be- 
fore presented itself, and some of those present 
began to regard Mary with a new interest, not 
untinged with envy. It is to be regretted, too, that 
Miss Marie Lewis was conscious of a slight resent- 
ment at being thrust into the background, whereas 
she had for some weeks enjoyed the proud position 
of a new arrival fresh from the city, dressed in 
lovely clothes, and a very pretty little girl besides, 
with the most correct boarding-school manners. 

“It is rather nice to feel as though you saw 


66 Mary is Introduced to Mayfair. 

everything for the first time,” remarked Dollie 
Martin, who sat close beside Mary and already felt 
very kindly toward her. “You see most of us are 
rather tired of everything about Ironton.” 

“But, imagine, I had never seen a girl till 
Marjorie came the other day. And I do think 
they are so nice, much prettier than boys. ,, 

She said this in a low voice, not meant for the 
boys’ ears, but gleeful Marjorie at once announced 
it aloud with a flourish of trumpets. The boys 
were, however, very tolerant about it and Mary did 
not sink at all in their good graces because of her 
preference for girls. 

“If only I hadn’t to go back !” Mary said with a 
sudden pang at the recollection that all this pleasant 
warmth and light and cheerful companionship 
would soon disappear as if by piagic. 

“Boys,” cried Marjorie, “if only we could invent 
a plan to keep Mary here always.” 

“Oh, look here, you,” said Jack, “you’ll get into 
trouble. They’ve the law and Miss Pemberton’s 
natural guardians.” 

“Unnatural, you mean!” exclaimed impetuous 
Marjorie. 

“Hush!” whispered Dollie Martin, for she saw 
a flush rising to Mary’s cheek. 


Mary is Introduced to Mayfair. 67 

“Of course/’ went on Mary, “what I mean is 
it’s very lonely at the Hall, with only my grand- 
father, who is old, and there is Mrs. Miles — ” 

She had spoken with a curious dignity which sat 
so well upon this grave young girl with the air of 
unusual distinction about her, even in her plain and 
homely garb, which dwarfed Marie Lewis’ pretti- 
ness into insignificance and made even Marjorie 
seem hoydenish and unformed. But when she 
came to the name of Mrs. Miles she stopped, grow- 
ing pale and casting a troubled look about her. 

“Who is Mrs. Miles? Oh, do tell us about her?” 
cried the girls, while the boys likewise drew near, 
with an expressive movement of eager interest. 

“Oh, she’s just Mrs. Miles. No one could 
describe her. She’s hateful and terrible. She sees 
everything, even in the night. I believe she is like 
a cat and can see in the dark. She hears the 
smallest sound and comes creeping, creeping, catch- 
ing you when you least expect it and hurting you 
in whatever way she can.” 

The children listened with fascinated interest, 
their eyes growing rounder and wider. It was like 
some tale of witches that had charmed or terrified 
their childhood. Though Mary thus discoursed 
freely of Mrs. Miles, she felt an odd and newly 


68 Mary is Introduced to Mayfair. 

awakened sense of loyalty, which impelled her to 
say nothing against her grandfather, who terrified 
her indeed almost as much as did this formidable 
woman and was the power behind Mrs. Miles, in- 
spiring her acts or, at least, sanctioning them. 

“I wish you all could see her and hear her speak 
and feel her bony fingers catching you, when you 
don’t even know she’s near,”, went on Mary. 

“I just wish we could catch her!” cried Hugh 
Graham, speaking out suddenly, his fair face aglow 
with indignation. “I should just like to come up 
behind her when she had seized you.” 

‘‘That would be jolly,” said Dick ; “I should like 
to see her forced to dance a witch’s dance.” 

“Or ducked in a horse pond, as they used to do 
with witches,” added Jack. 

“Oh, wouldn’t it be fun!” cried the others. 

But Marjorie here made a diversion. 

“I don’t think it’s good for you, Mary, to be 
thinking so much of that awful woman,” she said. 
“It would be far better to play while you are here 
and enjoy every moment of the time. Let’s play 
Hide and Seek.” 

“Yes, and make believe Mrs. Miles is after each 
one of us,” suggested Luke Morris. 

“It wouldn’t be much fun if she were,” said Ned 


Mary is Introduced to Mayfair. 69 

Wallace, “but it will give a creepy feeling to the 
game. ,, 

“I know I shall shriek if any one catches me,” 
Marie Lewis declared; “I shall fancy it is she 

“Let two or three of us hide together,” Dolly 
said; “then we can’t get nervous. There, Dick hat 
to find the rest of us. Come on, Mary!” 

The girls acted upon Dolly’s suggestion, two or 
three of them grouping together in the various 
places of hiding they selected and where Dick found 
them all in good season and came upon them with 
a terrific whoop to represent Mrs. Miles. 

So that all the girls did shriek lustily, except Mary, 
who was accustomed to the very useful habit of 
self-repression. Jack did not join in the game. He 
thought it undignified and that he was getting too 
big for such frolics. He took a book out of his 
pocket and began ostentatiously to read, but in spite 
of himself his eager eyes would follow every move- 
ment of that jovial game in which he had been 
wont to join with gusto. 

And so came Mary’s first visit to Mayfair to an 
end, leaving her much exhilarated by the air and 
exercise and the society of those of her own age. 

“I love Mayfair,” she said ; “I think it is so nice 
for you all to have this big place to run in.” 


70 Mary is Introduced to Mayfair. 

“Mother says we’re all getting to be too big 
for those games, and that very soon we’ll have to 
be quite staid and dignified,” Marjorie confided to 
her new friend. “Won’t it be tiresome?” 

“Indeed it will,” agreed Mary heartily; “I know 
what that is, because I always have to be as quiet 
as if I were an old woman.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


MR. AND MRS. MORTON RECALL THE PAST. 

TVT ow while Mary was being introduced to her 
* ^ young friends in Mayfair, Mr. Morton sat 
smoking upon the veranda. His wife was near, 
enjoying the beauty of the summer’s evening and 
smiling now and then at the sounds of merriment 
which reached her from the field opposite. As they 
sat thus their talk turned naturally upon Mary. 

“There never was a child more to be pitied!” 
Mrs. Morton declared emphatically. 

“I guess you’re about right there, Lucy,” assented 
Mr. Morton; “old Pemberton always did make my 
flesh creep, even as long ago as my college days. 
And yet he was very different then from what he 
is now.” 

Mr. Morton, becoming reminiscent, blew out a 
cloud of smoke, under cover of which he let his 
thoughts wander back to the days when he had 


71 


72 Mr. and Mrs. Morton Recall the Past. 

been a fresh-cheeked, fair-haired youth, coming out 
of college for his vacation. Now he was stout and 
middle-aged, his fresh cheeks had become florid 
and his hair had a hint of gray about the temples, 
but he liked to recall the past, as, indeed, all the 
world does. 

“Harry,” asked his wife, after the pause had 
lenghtened as such pauses do between members 
of the same family, “do you believe these stories 
that are told?” 

“Well,” said Mr. Morton, “I can’t say that I be- 
lieve all of them. In a country place like this there 
is sure to be exaggeration. But some of them we 
know to be true and we can guess at others.” 

He dropped his voice and looked about him 
cautiously as he spoke. 

“Of course,” said Mrs. Morton, “if we hadn’t 
known some of them to be true, there would never 
have been a break between the families. For 
instance, we know or suspect how Bessie was 
treated after her husband’s death and how fiercely 
bitter Mr. Pemberton was against her.” 

“Poor Bessie !” Henry Morton murmured, 
knocking the ashes off his cigar. From the field 
beyond came the babel of merry voices, which 
broke upon the summer dusk, with the monotonous 


Mr. and Mrs. Morton Recall the Past. 73 

drone of the katydids and the chirp of a belated 
bird. 

“Wasn’t that a dreadful evening, when we first 
found out?” Mrs. Morton said, with a tremor in 
her voice and a blanching of her cheek. “Do you 
remember, as we reached the door what a fearful 
storm came up? There was a yellow glare in the 
sky and a moaning wind howling about the house. 
The door was thrown open and the old man him- 
self stood upon the threshold. I often think of his 
ghastly face and burning eyes as he said: ‘Come 
in, till I show you a brave sight — my only son 
lying dead.’ And we went in and looked at poor 
Philip lying in his coffin, smiling and handsome as 
ever. It was such a shock. I had spoken to him 
only the night before.” 

“By George, Lucy, I shall never forget that 
night!” cried Harry Morton. “It was sickening.” 

“And when he told us — the rest,” added Mrs. 
Morton. 

“Hush!” said her husband, “don’t mention it, 
even here.” 

“How little poor Philip knew the night before, 
when I met him on the staircase. It made me shud- 
der to look at it the other day. He stopped just 
on the turn of the stairs to speak to me and 


74 Mr. and Mrs. Morton Recall the Past. 

he was jesting about everything, telling about all 
the rows he had had with his father all about noth- 
ing, and about his debts and the rest of it. Only 
once he was grave, and I have often told you before 
what he said then.” 

“Yes, I remember,” her husband said, “it was 
about Mary.” 

“He said, ‘If anything should happen me, my 
poor little girl is to go to Harry. I have left it in 
my will/ Then I suggested a possible objection to 
this from Bessie. ‘Bessie knows/ he said, ‘Bessie 
will be far more free to do what she pleases with 
the little one once it is away from Hornby/ 

“Just at that moment old Mr. Pemberton ap- 
peared at the top of the stairs, but a few paces 
away. I do not know whether he had heard what 
we said, but his face was very stern. Then Philip 
whispered something into my ear, of which I 
caught only these words, ‘the long barn/ and I, 
bowing to old Mr. Pemberton, called back good 
night to Philip and went down to where the car- 
riage was waiting at the door.” 

Husband and wife were silent, until Mr. Morton 
said: 

“I wonder if it was then and there the quarrel 
took place.” 


Mr. and Mrs. Morton Recall the Past. 75 

“I fear so said his wife, shuddering, “though 
we never could get at the details.” 

“It was a shocking thing,” Mr. Morton said, 
holding his cigar suspended and unheeding the fact 
that it had gone out. 

“Philip’s words have always been in my mind,” 
Mrs. Morton said, “and I often seem to hear them 
even in my sleep. It is a great reproach to me, 
that we have never done anything, especially after 
all that followed, when Bessie was taken and the 
child left alone.” 

“But, you see, that will of poor Phil Pemberton’s 
never turned up,” Harry observed, “so we are 
powerless.” 

“I am confident that will exists, if only it could 
be found,” Mrs. Morton declared. 

“Its existence is more than doubtful,” Mr. Mor- 
ton argued ; “it would probably have been destroyed, 
even if Phil ever made it.” 

“I am sure he made it,” Mrs. Morton persisted, 
“his look and tone were so solemn, and I do not 
think it has been destroyed. For even if the 
grandfather is as bad as people say, he would be 
afraid that the original of such a document might 
be preserved in some law office and turn up un- 
expectedly at any time to cause a scandal. He 


y 6 Mr. and Mrs. Morton Recall the Past. 

would more likely content himself with hiding it 
away, saying that its existence had been unsuspected 
till it was called for.” 

“Well reasoned out, little woman,” said Harry 
admiringly, “but it doesn’t make things much 
better for Mary or for us.” 

“Harry, I believe that will might be discovered 
by diligent search.” 

“But who is to search? Fancy any one invading 
Hornby and looking for anything in the teeth of 
old Pemberton and that Argus-eyed old witch he 
keeps to do detective duty.” 

“Still,” said Mrs. Morton, “it seems very dread- 
ful to think of this child’s going back to that house. 
My visit there the other day only confirmed the 
fearful impressions I had carried away on that 
night long ago. I felt that we should not have left 
Bessie’s child there all these years without even an 
effort to protect, to befriend her. Oh, I can’t talk 
of it, Harry. I can’t sit still and think of it. I am 
full of self-reproach.” 

Mr. Morton looked grave. 

“My dear,” he said, “you are unjust to yourself 
and to me. It was a very delicate matter to inter- 
fere in. Then we were abroad for some time. You 
were ill after that, and even now I fail to see what 


Mr. and Mrs. Morton Recall the Past. 77 

we can do. Old Pemberton is not to be thwarted 
and he has the legal advantage on his side.” 

“Harry,” whispered the wife, bending toward 
her husband so that her voice could reach him 
alone, “I do not think he would if all were known.” 

Harry looked startled. 

“Lucy,” he cried, “do you mean — ? But that is 
impossible. Think of the scandal, the publicity. 
My, the Pembertons and the Mortons would be a 
nine days’ wonder in Ironton and far beyond. 
There is talk enough already.” 

“But have we the right to sacrifice this child to 
any idea of that sort?” Mrs. Morton inquired. 

Mr. Morton pushed back his chair, with a move- 
ment of impatience. 

“What are you driving at, Lucy?” he said. “You 
women are so reckless of consequences, aiid this 
child has come to no harm so far. The old man 
can’t live forever. By your own showing, he 
looked the other day as if he couldn’t hang on 
much longer, and then I will be Mary’s guardian 
and all will come right without any raking up of 
dead ashes.” 

Mrs. Morton sighed, saying presently in a subdued 
tone, for Harry, like other men, had his moments 
when it is not safe to venture too far in argument : 


78 Mr. and Mrs. Morton Recall the Past. 

“Could you not hold out some threat which 
would make him give Mary up?” 

Harry Morton laughed scornfully. 

“Threats, indeed. I thought you knew old Pem- 
berton better than that. And besides, where are the 
witnesses, that woman who used to be about there 
— I forget her name — not Miles, but the other?” 

“Hester Primrose,” suggested Mrs. Morton. 

“Well, she’s gone and so is the Irishman, who 
used to work in the garden. He was a fine fellow 
and I never believed the trumped-up charge against 
him.” 

“Poor Malachy O’Rourke ! I remember him well,” 
exclaimed Mrs. Morton — “a cheerful fellow, full 
of kindliness and good will, with a song always on 
his lips. How different everything was in those 
days !” 

There was a long pause; then Mrs. Morton 
spoke, slowly and deliberately. She was a brave 
and resolute little woman, but she knew that her 
husband was of the easy-going and very practical 
stamp. So she hesitated to put her idea into words. 

“If that will is non-existent, or if there is no 
hope of getting it — ” she began. 

“Well, what then?” inquired her husband, look- 
ing at her with an indulgent smile. He had a high 


Mr. and Mrs. Morton Recall the Past. 79 

opinion of her qualities, mental and moral. She 
was so honest, so full of sterling rectitude and of 
faith, so exact in her religious duties, hence a model 
wife and mother, training up Madge in her own 
footsteps. 

“I should be in favor of keeping the child here,” 
she said firmly, “and of letting Mr. Pemberton take 
what steps he will.” 

“Lucy!” cried Mr. Morton aghast, “ you know 
you would never do that!” 

“I know that I can not allow that child to go 
back and be subjected, as I fear she has been, to 
ill usage or, at all events, to dreariness unspeak- 
able and the terrors of that dreadful Hall. Now 
that I know her, the eyes so like Bessie’s would 
haunt me, and we are morally certain that both 
her father and mother wished her to be with us.” 

Mr. Morton whistled, a long, astonished whistle. 

“By George!” he muttered, staring into the soft 
darkness of the summer’s evening, which began to 
overspread all the landscape. For he was, as he said 
himself, dumbfounded at this idea of his wife’s. 

Mrs. Morton drew near. 

“You know' we can’t do it,” she declared. “You 
are Bessie’s cousin. You were her friend and boy 
champion long before you knew me.” 


80 Mr. and Mrs. Morton Recall the Past. 

“Yes!” Harry Morton remembered only too 
well, and out of the gathering dusk seemed to come 
the slender figure, the appealing eyes, the ringing 
laugh of that long dead Bessie. He saw her almost 
with physical sight in the intensity of his new 
emotions. He was not an imaginative man, but 
eminently practical, disposed to let things take their 
course, to have no quarrel with his neighbors. He 
was, indeed, a typical American of a certain kind, 
with whom the world had gone well, who had 
family traditions, the feeling of caste, and a strong 
sense of the reserve which should enshroud family 
affairs. 

And here he was called upon to do a most un- 
usual thing, to engage in an extraordinary squabble, 
in the course of which much that was undesirable 
might be brought to light. Yet here was his wife 
resolute, and there was Bessie appealing to him 
out of the past to protect her child, and then, the 
girl herself. He remembered suddenly how she 
had looked when he gave her the money. 

“We can’t let her go back in that dismal prison 
van to worse than solitary confinement,” urged 
Mrs. ^Morton, returning to the attack. “Why, even 
this very visit the old wretch — but, there, I mustn’t 
call names — designed as a new torment. He said 


Mr. and Mrs. Morton Recall the Past. 8i 

Mary would the better understand what discipline 
meant and how different his hateful, old Hornby 
Hall was from other places, after she had been 
away.” 

Henry Morton looked very grave. 

‘‘I will think it all over, Lucy,” he decided, “but 
we must move very carefully. It is possible, as you 
say, that old man Pemberton will not care to go 
to law, especially if he knows anything about that 
will. He has such a lot of skeletons about the place 
that he may not care to set them all loose. Not a 
word, though, to Marjorie or the girl herself. Here 
they come, by the way.” 

The sound of merry voices preceded the boys and 
girls as they came streaming out of the field which 
they had dignified by the name of Mayfair. Their 
gay talk and laughter seemed like a commentary 
on the strange conversation which had taken place 
between husband and wife. They heard Mary’s 
name uttered by one after another of the pleasant 
young voices. It was plain that each vied with 
the other in pleasing the forlorn girl and making 
her one of themselves. Somehow, these things went 
to the heart of the kindly pair who looked out j^pon 
the swarm of young figures, dimly seen in the 
dusk. 


82 Mr. and Mrs. Morton Recall the Past. 

“You hear?” said Mrs. Morton. “She has begun 
to live. We can’t send her back to living death.” 

“By George, you’re right. Something must be 
done. We’ll keep her, if there were twenty old men 
to fight.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

MR. MORTON FORMS A PLAN. 

M arjorie and Mary bade the others good-night 
at the gate and came up the steps onto the 
veranda. It seemed already as if the two girls had 
known each other all their life. Marjorie in her 
impulsive way and Mary in staid, sober fashion 
found a mutual pleasure in each other’s society. 

“She is like her mother,” remarked Mr. Morton 
to his wife, as he watched the straight, slender 
figure coming through the dusk. 

“In that light she is her very image,” Mrs. Mor- 
ton agreed, “though Bessie was better-looking.” 

The elders then fell silent, listening amiably to 
the talk of the two girls and putting in an occasional 
word. A hay-cart drive had been planned for the 
next day and Marjorie was describing the glories 
of that particular form of merrymaking to Mary, 
who was, of course, totally ignorant of all such 
things. 


83 


84 Mr. Morton Forms a Plan. 

“We will drive out in a great big cart with lots 
of hay on it, to the milestone farm.” 

“What is that?” Mary asked. 

“Oh, a big farmhouse opposite the fifth milestone 
from here. We will have berries and cream there, 
picking the berries ourselves from the beds, and 
then we can roam round the farm awhile and come 
back just at sunset, when the air will be lovely.” 

The two were so interested as they sat together 
side by side that Mr. and Mrs. Morton thought 
themselves perfectly free to converse without fear 
of being overheard, and Mr. Morton asked his wife 
suddenly : 

“Lucy, what do you think Phil Pemberton 
meant when he mentioned the ‘long barn’ ?” 

“The long barn?” cried Mary Pemberton, turn- 
ing in her strange, unchildlike way to join in the 
conversation, much to the surprise of both husband 
and wife. For the girl’s quick ear had caught the 
familiar word and she seemed eager to tell all she 
knew about the subject under discussion. 

“Oh, I used to hear so much about the long barn. 
Grandfather and Mrs. Miles often talked about it, 
and I know that Mrs. Miles used to go out there 
night after night with a lantern. I didn’t think 
grandfather knew that, but I saw her often, creep- 


Mr. Morton Forms a Plan. 85 

ing out, when every one was asleep, just like a 
ghost. Once she caught me watching her from 
the window.” 

No one inquired what had followed upon that 
discovery, but the expression of terror which sud- 
denly came into the child’s face showed that the 
experience had been a fearful one. And it was this 
look of Mary’s which caused Marjorie to exclaim: 

“I don’t think Mrs. Miles is real. I think she 
must be just some witch or fairy that sprang out 
of the ground to torment people.” 

Marjorie’s father and mother were meanwhile 
exchanging glances. 

“What do you think the woman was looking for 
in the long barn?” Mr. Morton asked, with ap- 
parent carelessness. 

“I think, perhaps, she has been looking lately for 
a paper,” Mary answered, thoughtfully, “for I 
heard her saying to grandpapa that there was not 
a scrap of paper in the whole place. But I think 
Mrs. Miles keeps a lot of things out there, because 
she goes there so often, and grandfather can’t go 
to see what she has and none of the servants 
dares.” 

Mary paused and her listeners waited, Marjorie, 
with breathless awe, looking at her friend with 


86 Mr. Morton Forms a Plan. 

interest, as at one who had known strange ex- 
periences. 

“I saw the door open once and I peeped in, and 
another time when I was a little, little girl I heard 
a voice, a fearful voice, crying and groaning. 
I ran away quick. I thought it was something 
bad. ,, 

“Was that Mrs. Miles’ voice?” asked Mrs. Mor- 
ton. 

“No, oh no, it was not like hers at all^’ 

“That is curious,” commented Mr. Morton, 
gravely. “And you say that is some time ago?” 

“Yes, when I was a child.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Morton smiled. > 

“That was not so very long ago,” Mrs. Morton 
said. 

“It was the year my father and mother died.” 

There was silence after this; husband and wife 
were reflecting deeply. Nero, roused in his kennel by 
some unwonted noise, rose and bayed his deep- 
mouthed warning; then lay down again, content 
that he had done his best. The elders as well as 
the two children were thinking of the same thing, 
the singular being who with a certain, cold malig- 
nity seemed to reign over the destinies of Hornby 
Hall. She was flesh and blood, indeed, despite 


Mr. Morton Forms a Plan. 87 

Marjorie’s surmise, but every atom of human feel- 
ing save, perhaps, that of hatred had been worn 
away by her long years of service in that atmo- 
sphere of gloom and dreariness. She had come 
there a young girl, and had remained under the 
stern tutelage of the autocrat who ruled there, to 
become as Mary had described her, merely Mrs. 
Miles. Every one of the years, aided by a series 
of extraordinary events, had taken away some of 
her lightheartedness, if ever she had been light- 
hearted, some of her natural feeling, if evef she 
had possessed any. In that region of cold unbelief 
she had lost all faith in the supernatural, and with 
it all color and warmth and the joy of living. 

At her master’s bidding and because, with her 
dangerous knowledge, he wanted to bind her to his 
service, she had married the butler, who had grown 
gray in the service of the Pembertons and was 
wholly devoted to them. After a few joyless years, 
in which he had been a mere cipher, an automa- 
ton moving at the bidding of his iron-willed 
master and still more implacable wife, he died, un- 
mourned by the woman who had borne his name 
arid whom he had married to please his master. 
She had remained after that, trusted by the autocrat 
as he trusted no other human creature, a part of 


88 Mr. Morton Forms a Plan. 

all the dark traditions of Hornby Hall, as im- 
movable as one of its walls. 

“Do you know!” said Mary, “when she told 
grandfather that there was not a scrap of paper in 
the barn, I don’t think she told the truth, because 
she muttered to herself afterward that the thing 
must be there somewhere and that if only she could 
climb up or get a suitable ladder she would find it. 
The ladder in the granary had been burned. I 
heard her say these things when she thought I was 
asleep.” 

“By George!” cried Mr. Morton in great excite- 
ment. “I know the long barn well and I can judge 
the place she wants to get at. It’s a loft over one 
end of it. We boys used to try long ago to climb 
to it and once Phil actually did get up. He thought 
it a great feat and used to boast of it for a long 
time after. Phil knew the spot, of course, and 
would be sure to think of it if he wanted to hide 
anything.” 

All this was Greek to Mary, though she had the 
premature shrewdness and powers of observation 
engendered by her training. Her attention, too, 
was distracted by Madge’s dog, the great Mt. St. 
Bernard, who had come slowly round the side of 
the house and approached the steps with a joyful 


Mr. MoteTON Forms a Plan,. 89 

wag of his huge tail at sight of his young mistress. 
Mr. and Mrs. Morton, however, continued to dis- 
cuss the subject between themselves. 

“But why should the woman Miles wish to de- 
ceive the old man?” Mr. Morton inquired, doubt- 
fully. 

“I think the reason is very plain,” said Mrs. 
Morton ; “she wanted to keep this secret as a power 
in her own hands, to be used under certain circum- 
stances. That is, if she has been able to find the 
will.” 

“She certainly couldn’t climb up to the loft,” Mr. 
Morton said with a laugh, “but she may have had 
other means of reaching it, though the child heard 
her bemoaning the loss of a ladder. Will you try 
to remember,” he asked of Mary, breaking in upon 
her talk with Marjorie, “every word the old woman 
said when she was speaking of the long barn.” 

“I think, sir, I told you all I remember,” answered 
Mary. “That night that I heard her speaking 
about the ladder and being unable to climb she 
dropped hot wax from her candle on my face to 
see if I was asleep. I had to pretend I was and 
to wake up suddenly. The wax burned me so that 
my cheek was quite sore for a long time.” 

“Poor child!” murmured Mrs. Morton. 


90 Mr. Morton Forms a Plan. 

“She told me to tell grandfather,” Mary went on, 
“that I had been stung by a bee, if he noticed the 
spot. But I couldn’t, because my own dear mother 
told me always to tell the truth. So she made me 
sleep in the attic that night, where the bats are ; she 
knew I was afraid of bats. She told grandfather 
that I had been stung and he said not to let me 
come near him till my cheek was well. I was glad 
of that and I think Mrs. Miles was, too, because 
she was afraid grandfather might ask questions. 
I had a fearful week. She made me do lots of dis- 
agreeable things.” 

“The woman ought to be shut up,” Mr. Morton 
declared, indignantly. 

“She is shut up in the worst of all jails,” ob- 
served Mrs. Morton, with grim satisfaction at the 
thought, quite foreign to her usual good nature, 
“but the point is not to let Mary be shut up there 
again, if we can spirit her away somewhere.” 

“And go to jail ourselves, perhaps,” Mr. Mor- 
ton put in, but there was a new look on his face 
which bespoke a determination of some kind. After 
a while he said to Marjorie: 

“Well, Marjorie, my pet, I have something in 
my mind which will be much more fun, for the boys 
at any rate, than any hay-cart drive. To-morrow’s 


Mr. Morton Forms a Plan. 91 

Sunday, but early in the week I shall let them have 
an adventure.” 

“An adventure, papa !” exclaimed Marjorie. “Oh, 
what fun! but can’t the girls be in it, too?” 

“Not directly, I fear,” said Mr. Morton, “but 
if all goes well they’ll have some fine doings, too.” 

“I’m just dying of curiosity,” said Marjorie, but 
Mary, who was accustomed to repress all emotions, 
said nothing. Indeed, when Mr. Morton had made 
mention of “early in the week,” it had reminded 
her that by that time the greater part of her holi- 
day would be over. And the reflection saddened 
while she trembled in anticipation of how Mrs. 
Miles would try to make up in cruelty for the 
pleasure she had had. 

“She will torment me in a hundred ways,” she 
thought, in her old-fashioned way, “ but still it’s 
worth it to have come here and to know them all. 
She can’t stop my thoughts, nor make me forget. 
And when it is very lonely and dreary, I can bring 
in Marjorie and Dolly and the Lewises and Jack 
and Dick and Hugh and all the rest or I can play 
that I am in Mayfair. Of course, it will be only 
pretending, but it will be better than nothing.” 

Mrs. Morton here reminded Marjorie that as 
the morrow was Sunday it would be well for her 


92 Mr. Morton Forms a Plan. 

and Mary to go to bed somewhat earlier than 
usually. After the two children had gone, Mrs. 
Morton asked her husband: 

“What is this plan you have in view for the boys ?” 

“Oh, just a frolic, dangerous enough to put 
spirit into it.” 

“What kind of frolic?” 

Mr. Morton looked steadily at his wife before he 
replied : 

“I am going to organize those boys who can be 
trusted into a searching party.” 

“A searching party?” 

“Why, Lucy, you are usually quicker of wit than 
that,” Mr. Morton exclaimed, somewhat im- 
patiently. 

“Well, I don’t understand. What are they going 
to search for, and where?” said Mrs. Morton, re- 
garding her husband with eyes which sought to 
read plainly the mystery in his face. 

“What are they going to search for? Why, Phil 
Pemberton’s will, of course, and where?” 

A light broke over the wife’s face. 

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “I see! they are going to 
search in the long barn!” 

Mr. Morton nodded. 

“But won’t it be dangerous?” his wife asked, 


Mr. Morton Forms a Plan. 93 

grown suddenly timorous. “We can’t send other 
folks’ sons into danger.” 

“Pooh! pooh!” cried Mr. Morton, “Mrs. Miles 
can’t do much to half a dozen stirring lads, what- 
ever she may do to orphan girls. Old Pemberton 
is helpless and the servants, old all of them, are 
not likely to be very brave or very alert.” 

“There might be firearms,” Mrs. Morton sug- 
gested. 

“Who is to use them? Hardly the woman, 
though I believe she’s capable of anything. But 
it wouldn’t be her cue, I fancy, to court the inquiry 
which the shooting of any one would cause. It will 
be easy to keep out of range of the old man, even 
though he finds out our presence on the premises, 
which I shall take every means to prevent. In fact, 
I hope to proceed so noiselessly and cautiously 
that our visit to the barn may never be dis- 
covered.” 

“I am afraid that will be scarcely possible with 
the Argus eyes you spoke of on the watch,” said 
Mrs. Morton, rather faintly, for she began to realize 
that if there were danger in the attempt her hus- 
band would be in the thick of it. But Mr. Morton 
was already a boy again. He had got into the spirit 
of the adventure, besides being thoroughly aroused 


94 Mr. Morton Forms a Plan. 

on Mary’s behalf, so that he was not to be deterred 
by obstacles. 

‘There is the law, of which you were so much 
afraid a while ago,” went on his wife. 

“A fig for the law!” said Mr. Morton. “If we 
get what we seek, we may snap our fingers at them 
and if we don’t, why, it can be set down as a boys’ 
frolic which can not be taken much more seriously 
than their habit of climbing up to look over the 
fence. It will be hard to identify any of the boys 
and, of course, they will all be pledged to secrecy. 
If all goes well, Mary is ours, once and forever.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


mary's first time at church. 

T he following morning was Sunday, the quiet, 
wholesome Sunday of the country. The sun- 
shine lying over the land was quiet and soothing, 
all labor was suspended, the cattle broused peaceful 
in the fields, shops were closed, and the village folks 
walked about in their best clothes, seeming some- 
how unfamiliar and unreal. 

The Mortons were astir early, though they were 
going that day to the half past ten o’clock Mass at 
St. John’s Church, which was a very little edifice, 
indeed, of which Ironton was very proud. 

Mary Pemberton went with them, though she 
told the astonished Marjorie that she had never been 
in church before, except, perhaps, when her mother 
was alive and she was a very little girl. Mr. Pem- 
berton did not believe in churchgoing and practised 
no form of religion himself. 

The Mortons’ pew was very near the front, and 
95 


96 Mary's First Time at Church. 

Mary went up with the others, genuflecting 
mechanically because she saw her friend doing so 
and sitting or standing according as did the rest of 
the congregation. But she had no idea at all of 
what was going on. She did not know what the 
priest was doing at the altar nor why he should be 
dressed in that strange shining garment. The lights 
and flowers on the altar, the glow of the sanctuary 
lamp, the hush, the stillness, the whole atmosphere 
of the place enchanted her. To this girl, who had 
never to her recollection been inside of a church 
before, that High Mass was a revelation, wonder- 
ful, as though the gates of paradise had suddenly 
been left open and she had peeped into another and 
brighter world. She listened entranced to the 
music, the solemn and touching Kyrie Eleison, the 
gay, jubilant Gloria , the noble Credo and the tender 
Agnus Dei. They were strains as sweet to her as 
if choirs of angels had been singing, and the music 
of the organ to her unaccustomed ears was glorious. 
The picture over the altar, of John, the beloved dis- 
ciple, leaning on his Master’s bosom, fascinated her, 
though she did not know what it represented nor 
who either of the figures was. 

The sermon was on charity: “And the greatest 
of these is charity.” Mary listened, vaguely under- 


Mary's First Time at Church. 97 

standing what the preacher meant when he spoke 
of the love of God and of one's neighbor, but 
realizing that she had suddenly come into a world 
very different from that which was inclosed by the 
walls of Hornby Hall. Charity and peace and the 
glow which religion consciously or unconsciously 
gives to life were shut out from there as rigidly 
as bright colors and poetry and sentiment. It was 
not for many days, however, that Mary put into 
words all that was passing in her mind that 
memorable Sunday when she had first gone to 
church. She sat quiet beside Marjorie, watching 
her friend read attentively, with occasional glances 
at the altar, out of a pretty book, full of lace 
pictures. Once when Marjorie looked back in turn 
at Mary, it was suddenly borne in on her how a 
girl might feel who had never seen church or altar 
or any such things before. 

All the boys and girls of Mayfair were there, with 
or without their respective families. Jack Holland 
was more resplendent than ever in a new suit and 
spotless, high collar, with a vivid blue tie and hair 
brushed till it shone. Beside him was, of course, 
Dick, and they were presently joined by Hugh, the 
Wallace boys, and Luke Morris. After Mass Mar- 
jorie and Mary very soon met the two Lewises, 


98 Mary's First Time at Church. 

Dollie Martin, and Kitty Hogan, and they all 
stopped for a chat. Marie Lewis looked very pretty 
in her white pique costume, with the dearest blue 
sunshade, and Florence wore a very attractive pink 
chambray. Dollie looked sweet, as Marjorie said, 
though her face was plain and freckled, in a striped 
gingham, with a broad new straw hat. They looked 
very much like a bunch of flowers, as they stood 
together; though Marjorie was in her plainest 
frock to keep Mary in countenance and Kitty 
Hogan was in sober gray. It was pleasant to meet 
so many cheerful, smiling faces, Mary thought as 
she looked around. Nearly all the congregation of 
St. John’s knew one another more or less, and Mrs. 
Morton had a word for nearly all the women, with 
whom she was associatel in confraternities or chari- 
table work; and Mr. Morton exchanged a jest 
with John Tobin of the Riverside House, or shook 
the hand of old Jeremiah O’Meara the baker, and 
called out some remark upon the sermon to William 
McTeague of the general shop. In fact, he knew 
every one and every one knew him. 

Mary was, though she did not realize it, quite 
a center of attraction. The village people lingered 
about to catch glimpses of her, and whispered to 
one another concerning her strange history. 


Mary's First Time at Church. 99 

“What would ouldMr. Pemberton say at all, at all, 
if he seen his granddaughter in a Catholic church?” 
remarked one. “He hates Catholics as he hates — well, 
I won’t say ould Nick, for there’s no tellin’ how he 
stands in regard to him. But he hates them and 
ever and always did, even when he was a young 
man, as he was when I first came to Ironton.” 

“It’s no wonder she’s pale and yellow lookin’ 
with the life she’s led, poor thing,” said Mrs. Mul- 
vey, an Irishwoman, who washed for most of the 
families about; “why, beside Miss Marjorie there 
and the other young ladies, she looks ghastly, so 
she does. But she has a bright eye in her head and 
a purty smile, God bless her and take her out of 
the ould villain’s clutches. For villain I call him.” 

While this byplay was going on, Jack and Dick 
had drawn near the group of girls, Jack being 
quite proud to be seen on easy terms with Miss 
Pemberton from Hornby. 

“Suppose we all go for a walk in the woods this 
afternoon,” suggested Jack. “Will you come, 
Marjorie and Miss Mary?” 

“Oh, don’t call her Miss!” cried Marjorie — “it 
sounds grown-up and horrid.” 

Mary looked at him with her steadfast brown 

e y es * l OF a 


ioo Mary's First Time at Church. 


“I am just Mary Pemberton,” she said. 

“Well then, Mary, you will come and Marjorie 
and Miss Marie.” 

“I am not going to let you be formal with me 
either,” interrupted Marie Lewis. 

“Well, we’re all friends together, then,” said 
Jack, laughing, and coloring a little with pleasure, 
for the Lewises were very wealthy and very nice 
people and Jack, who was more of a snob than 
most boys of his age, felt the distinction of being 
thus admitted to intimacy. “And I suppose all the 
rest of you girls will come?” 

“I will,” answered Kitty Hogan, “that is, if you 
do not start too early. I have first to go with 
mother to see grandmamma.” 

“If you’re in Mayfair at four o’clock,” Jack de- 
cided, “it will do very well.” 

“We’ll all be there!” agreed Marjorie. “It will 
be a splendid day for the woods.” 

“I’ll get all the other boys,” put in Dick. “Hugh 
has gone home. He was too shy to come over to 
a whole group of girls, and the rest seem to have 
cut and run, too.” 

“Tell them all to be sharp on time,” commanded 
Jack; “we won’t wait five minutes for any one.” 

“Listen to the dictator!” laughed Marjorie; “it 


Mary's First Time at Church. ioi 

sounds like Napoleon to his army, or some of those 
things.” 

Jack vouchsafed the teasing girl only a scornful 
glance, as she explained : 

“We want to have at least an hour and a half 
in the woods, and tea’s early on Sunday.” 

“Almost every one in Ironton has tea early on 
Sunday,” Marjorie told Mary, “because we Catho- 
lics go to Vespers and the Rosary on Sunday 
evening and the Protestants go to their church at 
seven.” 

“Oh,” said Mary vaguely, adding after a pause, 
“I like going to church. I shall be glad to go back 
this evening. It’s all wonderful and lovely.” 

Marjorie gave her friend a curious glance and 
then admitted freely: 

“Sometimes I don’t feel a bit like going to 
church. Still I go, and mother says feeling doesn’t 
matter so long as we do what’s right.” 

“I think I should always like to go to church,” 
declared Mary. “You see I have never been there 
before.” 

“We never value so much what we have,” agreed 
Marjorie. “Sometimes, though, I love to go to 
church, especially on festivals and the first Friday 
and all that.” 


102 Mary's First Time at Church. 

“What has feeling to do with going to church ?” 
pronounced the wise Jack, fresh from the lessons 
of his professor; “and it’s only girls that talk 
about it.” 

“Hear the learned man,” sniffed Marjorie; “as 
if I didn’t know that I was just telling Mary a 
minute ago that feeling doesn’t make any difference 
so long as people go.” 

“Stop scrapping, you two,” interposed Dick; “if 
you begin that you’ll spoil everything.” 

“I won’t go near the kid at all!” declared Jack, 
loftily. 

“Yes, you will, too,” said Marjorie, “for you’re 
dying to hear everything Mary says, and Mary 
will be with me.” 

Jack colored, for this was true — Mary being such 
a novelty as had not excited the somewhat dull vil- 
lage for many a day; and there was a certain dis- 
tinction in knowing the long imprisoned orphan, 
who was also young lady of Hornby Hall, and an 
unusual interest in hearing her quaint utterances. 

“Mary and I will stay with Dick and Dollie and 
Hugh,” announced Marjorie, contradicting her 
previous declaration, “and you and the Wallaces 
and Luke can take charge of the Lewises and Kitty 
Hogan.” 


Mary's First Time at Church. 103 

For by this time they had left the Lewises at 
their house, which was not very far from the church, 
and had bade Kitty Hogan “good-by” at a cross- 
road where she had to turn off. 

“For shame, Marjorie,” cried Dick; “that will 
be cliquing and Aunt Lucy doesn’t allow that.” 

“That’s true,” assented Marjorie; “I said it to 
tease Jack. We’ll just go any way at all, however 
it happens, only Mary and I will stay together.” 

“As if you were going to run the show,” grum- 
bled Jack. 

“We can run away from you, anyway, if we 
like,” retorted Marjorie. She did not dislike Jack, 
whom she had always known, but she couldn’t 
resist teasing him whenever she got a chance. 

“Don’t you like the tall boy in the high collar?” 
asked Mary gravely as Jack moved scornfully 
aside. These grave questions of hers nearly upset 
Dicky’s gravity every time she uttered them, and 
they puzzled Marjorie. 

“Oh, I like him well enough,” answered Mar- 
jorie,” but he is so stuck up and thinks himself a 
great deal bigger than he is.” 

“He is big,” observed Mary, looking after Jack, 
who was stalking ahead. 

“Only sixteen!” declared Marjorie. 


104 Mary's First Time at Church. 

“And how old are you?” 

“I’m fourteen, going on fifteen.” 

“You are nearly my age,” remarked Mary, “at least 
I think so, but Fm not quite sure how old I am.” 

Dicky stared and then, turning away, began to 
kick the pebbles out of his path. This was the 
strangest girl he had ever met: she didn’t know 
anything. Yet she was a good sort of girl, eager 
to join in every sport and be on the most friendly 
terms with all the boys and girls. 

“Well,” continued Mary, “the tall boy, Jack, 
seems a great deal older than you, Marjorie, and he 
seems to know a good deal and — ” 

“He has a higher collar than any other boy,” 
interrupted Marjorie, laughing. 

There was a gleam of humor in Mary’s brown 
eyes as she regarded Jack’s offending article of 
dress, just then being displayed in a rear view. 

“Look here!” cried Dick, “Jack’s my chum and 
he’s a good fellow, and I wish you wouldn’t be 
forever slanging him, Marjorie.” 

“Well, I’ll try not to, Dick,” said Marjorie in a 
friendly way, “for to-day anyway. I’ll not say a 
word about his collar, or his new clothes, or his 
lordly ways. But he is enraging, Dick, and always 
makes me feel like teasing him.” 


Mary's First Time at Church. 105 

Jack turned .at the moment, sending his quick, 
flashing glance back at the group. Perhaps he 
guessed that he was under discussion, but in any 
case he quickened his pace, calling back with affected 
carelessness to his chum: 

“I say, Dick, don’t forget to see the Wallaces and 
Graham and Morris.” 

“All right,” responded Dick, “I’ll see them and 
tell them to be sharp on time. Mayfair at four 
o’clock.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

MR. MORTON HOLDS A MEETING IN MAYFAIR. 

O n the Monday which followed that memorable 
Sunday, Mr. Morton called a meeting of 
the boys at Mayfair in the evening at 8 o’clock. 
Every one was punctual ; each boy looking as 
solemn and important as if he were going to serve 
on a jury in some mighty case. The boys had, in- 
deed, been very curious during the time which in- 
tervened between the receipt of the note which Mr. 
Morton had punctiliously sent to each and the ap- 
pointed time of meeting. 

They knew that Marjorie’s father was an active 
patron of sport, that there never was a football or 
baseball match, a golf tournament or a tennis com- 
petition in which Mr. Morton had not some part. 
The rowing club and the cricket teams knew him 
for their benefactor. Mr. Morton was, in fact, a 
man who had not as yet survived his boyhood. His 

106 


Mr. Morton Holds a Meeting. 107 

life had been so easy and free from care that his 
interest was still keen in the amusements which had 
rejoiced his youth. 

The boys naturally concluded, therefore, that it 
must be some jollification that was being planned, 
but what it was they didn’t know. There they were 
all grouped about the largest tree, which had that 
bench around it upon which the girls so often were 
seated. Mr. Morton stood on this elevation, the 
better to make himself heard. 

# 

“It isn’t politics that I want to talk. Nor foot- 
ball, nor yet baseball. It is none of those things, 
now. And yet it is sport in a certain sense and very 
good sport too.” 

The eyes that were watching Mr. Morton 
gleamed, one and all, with anticipation. 

“I believe,” went on the gentleman, “that you 
all take a very kind interest in Miss Mary Pember- 
ton?” 

There was a general murmur of assent from the 
boys. 

“And that you have so far done everything in 
your power to make her visit pleasant. Boys, the 
powers that be at Hornby Hall have decreed that 
that visit shall end on Thursday.” 

He paused. There was a silence of evident re- 


108 Mr. Morton Holds a Meeting. 

gret on the part of the boys. They waited eagerly 
for what came next. 

“What would you say if we should try to prolong 
it?” asked Mr. Morton, impressively. 

“Oh, yes, yes!” cried the Ironton boys in eager 
chorus. For like most other boys who are honest- 
hearted and unspoiled they had a fund of sympathy 
which was easily stirred. 

“You have some idea, I believe, of the loneliness 
of Hornby Hall,” continued Mr. Morton ; “none 
of you would like to go and live there.” 

“I guess not!” rang out Jack's sharp tones, with 
which the other voices chimed in. 

“Yet it is worse in some ways for a girl,” added 
Mr. Morton. 

This sentiment was not so generally applauded. 
Girls were somehow expected to spend more time 
indoors and to be content with quieter places. 

“In any case,” went on Mr. Morton, “ you would 
help, if you could, to keep Mary Pemberton in 
Ironton.” 

This suggestion astonished the boys. So that 
for the moment they were silent. 

“Let every boy who is willing to help put up 
his right hand,” requested Mr. Morton. This time 
there was no hesitation. Every hand went up in 


Mr. Morion Holds a Meeting. 109 

an instant. Shy Hugh Graham jostled Jack in his 
hurry, and Dick got ahead even of Jack, pressing 
to the front like a chivalrous little knight eager to 
assist a distressed maiden. 

“Well, I see you are all with me,” said the orator 
of the evening. “Now, the first thing, my fine fel- 
lows, is secrecy, absolute secrecy. Without that 
nothing can be accomplished, and I will have to 
insist on secrecy after as well as before the event. 
This is a conspiracy compared to which the con- 
spiracy of Cataline or any other in history is as 
nothing.” 

Now the word conspiracy is dear to every boyish 
heart and the idea of secrecy was delightful. Only, 
the curiosity of Mr. Morton’s listeners was growing 
painful. What event, what mysterious happening, 
required such secrecy? What, they asked them- 
selves, could they have to do with Mary Pember- 
ton’s staying, and where was the sport to come in? 

“Each boy must promise secrecy on his word of 
honor,” resumed Mr. Morton. “I have united here 
to-night only those whom I know well, those who 
are the habitual companions of my own little girl 
and of her cousin Dick. Therefore I trust you 
implicitly and your word will be as good as any 
man’s oath.” 


no 


Mr. Morton Holds a Meeting. 


The boys blushed with pleasure. 

“A gentleman’s word should be always equal to 
his oath,” declared Mr. Morton, “and the boy who 
is to make anything of himself in the world should 
respect his own word and hold it sacred. I am not 
here to preach, but to tell you how complete is my 
confidence in every one of you.” 

“Thank you, sir!” cried several of the boys. 

“And now we are not precisely, my young 
friends, going to beard the lion in his den, but it 
is something very much like it.” 

The boys’ interest grew keener. 

“In other words, we are not going, precisely, to 
storm Hornby Hall, but to invade the mysterious 
territory about it.” 

The boys, by an involuntary movement, drew 
closer together and nearer to Mr. Morton. Here 
was such a bit of fun, of daring, of adventure, as 
had never before been offered them. Jack and 
Dick remembered the delicious thrill of fear, the 
creepiness of even looking over the wall. And now, 
under a strong and able leader, they were going 
to advance into that hostile, that unknown territory 
and do battle in some shape or form for the defence 
of the weak. 

“To-morrow night we shall set out from May- 


Mr. Morton Holds a Meeting. hi 

fair at ten punctually,” announced the leader. 
“There is no moon, so the darkness will be our best 
friend. We shall proceed to the Hall on foot. It 
would never do to go in carriages, because should 
the affair be discovered, better that it be set down 
as a bit of boyish mischief, so that the serious ob- 
ject of our expedition may be concealed. 

“For we have a serious purpose, though this is 
not the time or place to make known to you what 
that purpose is. Moreover, my lads, all you who 
are determined to go must be strictly punctual. I 
have nothing more to say at present.” 

With these words, Mr. Morton descended from 
his elevated position on the bench under the great 
tree, and the boys crowded about him, eager, full 
of questions, and promising without fail to be 
present at the appointed time. 

“You can leave all the details to me,” declared 
Mr. Morton; “whatever is required for the ex- 
pedition will be forthcoming.’’ 

“Mr. Morton,” urged Jack, somewhat subdued 
in speaking to the older man, “why do you come 
with us at all? You can plan everything and leave 
us to put the plans into execution.” 

Mr. Morton fixed his eyes upon the lad, as Jack 
continued to explain his idea. 


1 12 Mr. Morton Holds a Meeting. 

“Because you see it’s this way, if anything should 
be found out it is better, as you said a while ago, 
that it should be charged to the boys. ,, 

Mr. Morton still looked thoughtful, but presently 
he said: 

“Ah, but there’s another side to the matter. 
Should the affair become serious and have any 
grave consequences, which I trust may not be the 
case, I must be in a position to say: These boys 
were only my instruments ; I accept the responsibil- 
ity of what has been done and I am prepared to 
give satisfactory reasons for my acts.” 

Jack’s face fell a little. For, in truth, he was 
a boy who liked to act as leader and was never 
quite contented in being merely a subordinate. How- 
ever, it was not a point which admitted of argu- 
ment. She had run out of the garden, where she 
boys and returned to his home. There he found 
Marjorie waiting for him in considerable excite- 
ment. She had run out of the garden where she 
had been playing with Mary and Dolly Martin in 
the soft, calm starlight. She had divined that 
something unusual was on foot and she was a little 
resentful that the girls could have no show in the 
frolic of which her father had spoken. 

“Never mind, Marjorie, old girl,” said the in- 


Mr. Morton Holds a Meeting. 113 

dulgent parent; “if all goes well we shall have 
such a celebration on Thursday night as Ironton 
has never seen. ,, 

“Thursday, papa? But Mary will be gone.” 

“And that would be to have Hamlet with the prince 
of Denmark left out,” laughed Mr. Morton, “but, 
perhaps, we can manage to keep her a little longer.” 

“Oh, do you think so?” questioned Marjorie joy- 
fully. Then her face clouded over. She suddenly re- 
membered the visit to Hornby Hall and the look and 
tone of old Mr. Pemberton as he said to Mary : “You 
will return on the same day and hour next week. 
I shall wait for you, with my watch in my hand.” 

“I am afraid her grandfather will be very angry,” 
Marjorie suggested, “and that awful Mrs. Miles. 
Mary is so much afraid of her.” 

“We must see if we can’t protect Mary against 
this bugaboo Mrs. Miles,” said the father, con- 
fidently. “So don’t worry, little girl. As I said, 
if all goes well we shall have our celebration, with 
Mary Pemberton as guest of honor.” 

With this Marjorie had to be content, and giving 
her father a parting hug, she ran off to join her 
friends, followed with great bounds by Nero, who 
barked his appreciation of the fun and leaped the 
garden fence as if to have his share in the game. 


CHAPTER X. 


THE LONG BARN. 

N ow Mr. Morton, to prevent all anxiety on the 
part of parents, had telephoned to each of 
the boys’ respective households that he was taking 
the lads with him on a certain expedition and that 
if they were delayed after the usual hour of return- 
ing there was no cause for anxiety. He was a 
little fearful of the responsibility he was taking, 
but he felt that the cause was a good one, justify- 
ing some risk, and that there was scarcely a chance 
of any harm coming to the devoted little band. 
The terrors which they should have to face and 
which gave zest to the undertaking would be chiefly 
those of the imagination. 

The night appointed for the proposed expedition 
was as dark as the most romantic lover of ad- 
venture could have desired. There was no moon 


The Long Barn. 


and the stars, faint in the haze of heat, gave little 
light. The air was still and sultry, as if somewhere 
a storm might be lurking, and flashes of sheet light- 
ning occasionally lit up the heavens. The boys set 
out, resolute and brave, all intensely in earnest, 
though they had no idea that anything of conse- 
quence was at stake. A stout stick was provided 
for each one of the party, and these, with a couple 
of dark lanterns and a rope which Mr. Morton 
fancied might be useful, constituted the equipment. 

They met, with much secrecy, under the trees in 
Mayfair, talking in whispers and feeling generally 
as if they belonged to some desperate association 
and were setting out upon an expedition of awful 
import. Mr. Morton gave the word to move : 

“Are all here?” he asked, in a cautious whisper. 
“Steady then, lads, and away. Keep close together, 
talk little, and be prepared to obey orders.” 

There was a delicious thrill in the breast of every 
boy, as they all plunged into the darkness, Jack and 
Dick walking ahead with Mr. Morton, while Hugh 
and the elder Wallace followed close upon their 
steps and Luke and George Wallace brought up 
the rear. 

“Isn’t it prime ?” whispered Luke. “Mr. Morton’s . 
a brick.” 


The Long Barn. 


ii 6 

“You bet!” answered Ned Wallace sententiously. 
“I wonder where we’re going!” 

“To Hornby Hall,” promptly answered Hugh 
Graham. 

“Not to the house!” chorused the three others 
with some awe. 

“No, I think not,” admitted Hugh; “I wonder 
what we’re going to do?” 

“We’re going to a mighty creepy place, any- 
way!” Ned Wallace declared, with a note of exal- 
tation in his voice. “Have any of you fellows been 
there after nightfall?” 

It transpired that they all had been there, taking 
observations from various points. 

“I’m not funking, nor anything of that sort,” 
went on Ned, “but I’m glad we’re not going into 
the house.” 

“I don’t know,” Hugh said, “I almost wish we 
were. It would be so exciting.” 

For this shy lad had a bold and daring spirit 
which would stop at nothing. 

“Oh, it will be exciting enough, all right, when 
we get there,” Ned predicted with confidence. 

“Mr. Morton’s lantern and slouched hat make 
him look like a burglar,” whispered George Wal- 
lace to Luke Morris. 


The Long Barn. 


117 


Luke giggled. 

“I know we’re going in somewhere or we 
wouldn’t need lanterns,” observed Hugh Graham. 

“Into some outhouse, I guess,” said Ned Wal- 
lace, with faint uneasiness. Ned was no coward, 
but he did not want to run too great a risk. 

As the party neared its destination, all conversa- 
tion ceased and the boys pushed on after their leader 
in a silence which was full of excitement. The air 
grew cooler somewhat as they proceeded, and along 
the way they were met by the odors of many 
gardens and the scent of blossoming trees. 

Suddenly, at a turn of the road, Hornby Hall 
came into sight, standing far back amongst the 
trees, white and cold and ghostly in the uncertain 
light. The band of adventurers stood still a 
moment, and after that their movements became 
more cautious and furtive. They did not proceed 
up the avenue with its stiff rows of poplars, but 
struck into a stubble-field which flanked it. They 
had now to advance slowly and with the greatest 
care, for the ground was uneven and there were 
many pitfalls and snares for the footsteps of the 
unwary. They reached a point presently where 
they had a rear view of the house, the stables and 
outhouses, and the high-walled garden. 


n8 The Long Barn. 

Here they stopped and took observations, each 
boy with bated breath and beating heart. Every- 
thing lay ghastly white and still. Not a point of 
light anywhere, not the slightest movement. Had 
Hornby Hall been deserted, it could not have been 
more fearfully quiet. 

“So far so good!” said Mr. Morton. “And 
now, my lads, over that hedge, and if the courtyard 
gate be open our path is clear. If not, we will have 
to make a considerable detour to reach the long 
barn.” 

“The long barn!” the boys simultaneously ex- 
claimed in a whisper which despite them was 
tremulous. 

“I can take you there with absolute certainty 
if we are not discovered. I know every inch of the 
ground. I spent my holidays at the Hall when I 
was a boy at college.” 

The boys looked at him as if this circumstance 
gave him a new and strange interest. 

“And now, soft and still. I will get over yonder 
hedge first to see if the gate is open. If I wave 
my lantern, you will all follow at once, and then 
comes the greatest point of danger. Inside the gate 
there is a passage, rather narrow, leading past some 
of the side windows of the house to the courtyard. 


The Long Barn. 119 

We have to pass through that, with the fear of 
Argus eyes being upon us or our movements over- 
heard by ears trained to catch the slightest sound. 
So, soft and still. Hold your very breath !” 

Mr. Morton vaulted lightly over the hedge and 
instantly waved his unlit lantern. The gate stood 
open, a gaunt shape in the darkness, and through 
it they passed, with a feeling in the breast of every 
boy that he was going to his doom. For the shadow 
of the house was upon them, that house of mystery 
and horror, and it was so near, so appallingly near. 
The windows seemed to look down on them like 
frowning, sullen faces. There was the thrill of a 
forlorn hope in their veins as they followed Mr. 
Morton, with cautious, creeping footsteps, through 
that narrow passage, feeling each moment as if a 
hand might be outstretched to catch them or a 
harsh voice sound in their ears. 

At last they reached the courtyard, where, at 
least, there was breadth and they could avoid close 
contact with the house. Mr. Morton breathed more 
freely. The Argus eyes, he thought, must be closed 
in a deeper sleep than normal. Still he did not 
relax his vigilance. The one who might be watching 
them was cunning and would give no sign. The 
party passed through the courtyard, however, still 


120 


The Long Barn. 


undisturbed by sound or sight. Presently there 
was the outline of a long, low building, remote from 
all the other outbuildings. 

“That is the long barn !” announced Mr. Morton, 
“and we have come to search the long barn. ,, 

There was something delightful and mysterious 
in the idea of a search, implying possible strange 
discoveries and hidden treasures. 

“Keep close now !” commanded Mr. Morton, 
“and follow me! The long barn might chance to 
have a tenant.” 

His face looked grim as he said those words and 
he grasped the rope more tightly in his left hand. 

“A tenant!” he repeated, having before his 
mind’s eyes the one who might be there. To the 
boys the idea suggested was one of nameless horror. 
It might be any one or any thing, they thought, with 
shivers of the old creepiness which had always come 
over them in their expeditions to Hornby Hall. The 
atmosphere seemed suddenly to have a chill in it, 
unwholesome, fetid, as from a swamp. Mr. Mor- 
ton paused to listen. All was still. He lifted the 
latch, while the boys could almost hear the beating 
of their own hearts, fearful of what might be dis- 
closed on opening the door. Even their grown-up 
leader felt that it would be, to say the least, un- 


The Long Barn. 


121 


comfortable should he find himself confronted by 
the face of Mrs. Miles. Mary had said that she 
often visited this place by night. Still, he had in 
his mind the plan of action to be adopted in such 
an emergency. 

When he actually opened the door, the place was 
dark and silent. No ray of light came out into the 
night, only the smell of hay and flying particles of 
grain or dust stirred by the sudden entrance of the 
air. Mr. Morton hastily stepped across the threshold, 
signaling for the boys to follow him. When the 
door was closed again, he cautiously lit one of the 
lanterns and took a hasty survey of the big, empty 
barn, with its bare walls, its dusty floor, and the 
roof overhead, gloomy and impenetrable, wrapped 
in darkness. 

“We must place a couple of sentries outside,” 
Mr. Morton said; “it would never do to let our- 
selves be approached unawares.” 

For Mr. Morton reckoned all the time upon Mrs. 
Miles, being ^ desperately cunning, and knew that 
she might have been observing their movements for 
some time and might, consequently, play them a 
trick. 

“Who will volunteer for sentry duty?” he asked. 

Now, this was a very hard part of the service, for 


122 


The Long Barn. 


the curiosity of all the boys was at fever heat and 
they burned to explore this mysterious long barn, 
the very name of which was ominous, just as its 
interior was sinister and forbidding. Moreover, 
it was not the pleasantest thing in the world to be 
stationed outside in that chill, unnatural atmo- 
sphere, with the chance of being discovered by one 
of those dreaded shapes which they vaguely believed 
to belong to Hornby Hall. After a moment’s 
silence, Hugh Graham, who had the spirit of a 
hero in him, stepped forward. 

“If it is necessary, sir, I will do it,” he declared, 
simply. 

“Thank you, Hugh,” Mr. Morton said, with a 
grateful glance at the boy’s resolute face. “I know 
it is hard on you not to be in at the death, when 
we have, so to say, run the fox to earth. But, be- 
lieve me, you shall know and see whatever we may 
discover as soon as that is possible. You will take 
the end of the barn near the house and one of these 
other lads will take the other. You are the tallest 
and strongest, Luke Morris, apart from Jack and 
Dick, whom I require in the barn.” 

Luke reluctantly consented to take up a post at 
the other end of the barn, and followed Hugh out 
into the chill of the night. 


The Long Barn. 


123 


The landscape looked more dreary than ever. 
There was no smell of flowers or of blossoming 
trees to sweeten the air. The wind had freshened 
into gusts which sent eddies of dust into the boys’ 
faces. 

“I hope they won’t be long in there,” observed 
Luke to his fellow watcher. “I feel as if I’d like 
to cut and run.” 

“A soldier can’t desert his post,” declared Hugh, 
stoutly, “and we’re soldiers for the time being. I 
don’t feel a bit like running. I feel like fighting 
and as if I would be rather glad if some one should 
come along that a fellow might tackle.” 

“Don’t !” cried Luke. “There isn’t any one round 
here that could be tackled,” and he looked around 
him in the darkness as if he fancied that such a 
wish as his companion had expressed must be fol- 
lowed by the immediate apparition of some one. 

“And just think of the girl,” said Hugh, in his 
fine, manly way, “who has to live here all the time. 
If we can help her, I don’t mind anything.” 

With an almost weird vividness the picture of 
that girl came up in the minds of both boys. A 
something forlorn in her appearance, an appealing 
sadness in her brown eyes, which yet could sparkle 
with fun, the sober coloring of her clothes, her dif- 


124 


The Long Barn. 


ference from most girls, seemed to show that she 
bore about her the shadow of this place. 

“I guess I wouldn’t like to have to live here al- 
ways !” Luke said. He was standing quite close to 
Hugh, thus in a sense deserting his post, while 
Hugh stood resolutely upon the spot indicated by 
Mr. Morton. “It’s the meanest, snakiest place I ever 
saw and I guess the folks in it aren’t any better.” 

Here a pair of hands, protruding from some- 
where, caught each of the boys in a vise-like grip. 
Their heads were brought together and deliberately 
knocked very hard. It must be confessed that Luke 
collapsed altogether under this attack, which was 
all the more dreadful that it was both mysterious 
and unexpected. But Hugh’s courage rose. He 
deliberately struggled bravely in the strong grasp 
and called out repeated words of warning in a 
high, firm voice. Unfortunately, the warning was 
unheard, and a hand was pressed firmly over his 
mouth. Another instant and the hand was re- 
placed by a handkerchief, which gagged him com- 
pletely. His hands were drawn behind his back 
and bound together securely. Luke, who lay upon 
the ground, not daring so much as to look up, was 
similarly treated and both boys were laid helpless, 
side by side, on the ground. 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE LOFT OVER THE LONG BARN AND WHAT WAS 
IN IT. 

M eanwhile Mr. Morton had not been idle 
within the long barn. He was, in fact, so 
occupied and so engrossed with what was taking 
place that Hugh’s warning fell upon deaf ears. 
“A boy will have to go into that loft,” he declared. 
Jack and Dick both volunteered immediately, but 
Mr. Morton decided the matter in his brisk fashion. 

“Dick shall go up,” he decided, “and you, Jack, 
shall be his ladder. Get up here on this round of 
wood.” 

Jack, who was not altogether pleased with this 
subordinate post, stepped onto the round stump of 
a tree which had evidently been used for sawing 
purposes. 

“Now stand firm, brace yourself against the wall 
and I will hoist Dick onto your shoulders. Wait 
125 


126 The Loft Over the Long Barn 

a moment, Dick; here, let me put this rope about 
you — it will be useful in coming down.” 

Dick obeyed and was quickly hoisted into position 
on Jack’s shoulders, where he was presently stand- 
ing upright sustained by Mr. Morton and the wall 
in front of him. He was in a position to grasp the 
flooring of the loft, and at the word of command 
from Mr. Morton swung himself up. He was too 
excited to feel fear of this mysterious region, which 
looked so dark and uninviting. Once landed, Mr. 
Morton commanded him : 

“Reach down now for a lantern!” Dick Dalton 
did so, taking the light from Mr. Morton’s hand. 

“Now, my boy,” the leader directed, “leave not 
a corner of that loft unsearched. Report to me 
every object you find there, and look in every crack 
and crevice. For we want to find a will, my boy, 
a will that will give us Mary to keep forever.” 

The boys all were excited by this time and Jack 
looked curiously up at his friend. 

“I wish I too could go up, sir! I think I could 
manage to climb without assistance,” he pleaded. 

“You might get up all right,” declared Mr. 
Morton, “but how about you, or Dicky either, get- 
ting down? You see Dick will require a ladder to 
get down on.” 


And What Was in it. 


127 

Jack was forced to stand discontentedly by while 
Dick disappeared in the darkness. 

“There seems to be another room! ,, he called 
down. 

“Another room !” exclaimed Mr. Morton. 
“Hurry, and tell us whether there is anything in it.” 

Dick pushed open a door, which gave a strange, 
creaking, jarring sound, and he uttered an ex- 
clamation of surprise. 

“It is full of things!” he called down. 

Jack groaned. 

“Let us see some of them,” Mr. Morton com- 
manded. 

Dick, after fumbling about a few moments longer, 
presently threw down a bundle containing what 
seemed to be clothes folded loosely together. In 
the light of the lantern, there was the sparkle of 
something bright about them. Mr. Morton looked 
closer. 

“By all that’s wonderful, a regimental coat!” he 
cried. He looked still closer, examining one detail 
after another of that strange discovery. Then he 
gave a subdued cry. 

“Phil Pemberton’s uniform!” adding under his 
breath, “that he was accused of selling to pay 
some debt.” 


128 The Loft Over the Long Barn 

“Uncle Harry!” cried Dick in high excitement 
from above, “there's jewelry up here.” 

“What! Jewelry?” asked Mr. Morton, in quick, 
hurried tones. His face was very pale. He seemed 
to be on the track of a mystery more singular than 
any which had as yet enshrouded Hornby Hall.” 

“There is a bracelet!” cried Dick, and he drew 
near to the edge of the loft, holding up something 
which caught the lantern light on a shining 
surface. 

“An amethyst bracelet?” Mr. Morton inquired, 
in the same breathless tone. 

“Yes, and a couple of rings, and a watch with 
a single diamond in the cover.” 

“For the stealing of these jewels Hester Prim- 
rose and Malachy O'Rourke were brought before 
the magistrate,” said Mr. Morton in a hushed voice, 
as though speaking to himself and forgetting the 
presence of the boys. “The man escaped by some 
flaw in the evidence and left the country still under 
suspicion, and the woman served a term in prison.” 

Jack and George, made round-eyed with wonder, 
gazed in bewilderment at Mr. Morton. They felt 
as if they were in a dream and as if their leader 
had suddenly become crazy. Meanwhile Mr. Mor- 
ton stood as one dazed, recalling with a vividness 


And What Was in it. 


129 


of recollection that was startling how he, as a boy, 
had tried and failed to climb into that loft, which 
was even then a place of mystery. Phil Pemberton 
alone had succeeded and had been very proud of 
his achievement, describing, with a quite patron- 
izing tone, to Harry Morton and the other boys 
what the place was like. 

“There’s a big loft and there’s a room off it that 
I guess was meant for a stable boy to sleep in, and 
there’s a good deal of rubbish lying around. It’s 
a jolly good hiding-place, anyhow.” 

Mr. Morton seemed to hear Phil’s boyish voice 
again, and he recalled how Phil had further con- 
fided in him alone : “While I was poking around,” he 
had said, ”my foot knocked against a board in the 
far corner of the loft, and when I examined it I saw 
it was made almost like a door, with a hinge on it. 
I opened it, and there was as neat a little cupboard 
as could be.” 

Phil, the adventurous climber, the gay companion, 
had grown into a jovial, generous-hearted, careless 
man and was dead long since, while his father had 
changed from an ordinary stern man of arbitrary 
nature into something terrible and malign. Hornby 
had fallen, as it were, under a curse and had become 
a byword in the neighborhood. 


130 The Loft Over the Long Barn 

But that chance discovery of Philip Pemberton’s 
long ago flashed into Mr. Morton’s mind as he 
heard Dicky proclaiming that there were heaps of 
things above, ladies’ dresses, and boxes full of or- 
naments and strange-looking toys, but not a bit of 
paper anywhere. Mr. Morton drew closer : 

“Dick,” he said in a whisper, as if he feared the 
walls had ears, “go to the right-hand, farthest 
corner of the loft and feel about till you find what 
seems to be a loose board.” 

Dick obeyed and Mr. Morton waited with breath- 
less attention. Even if the hiding-place could be 
found, which Phil would probably have thought of 
and used when secreting his will, there was just 
one chance in a hundred that Mrs. Miles did not 
know of it from the first, or stumble upon it in 
some of her excursions to the barn. For it was 
evident that she had frequently visited the loft by 
means, no doubt, of the ladder the loss of which 
Mary had heard her deploring. 

Mr. Morton strongly suspected she had hidden 
away there a number of articles — articles the dis- 
appearance of which had brought trouble and dis- 
grace upon others. 

Dick felt about for some time in the dark corner 
of the loft, where the cobwebs hung thick and the 


And What Was in it. 131 

dust almost choked him. He set the lantern beside 
him upon the floor and passed his hand over every 
board, stooping low that he might not strike his 
head where the roof of the barn sloped down to the 
floor. At first he could find nothing, and Mr. Mor- 
ton, waiting, found the time very long. At last 
Dick cried out : 

“Fve got the place, sir. The board opens and — ” 

“What is there ?” questioned Mr. Morton breath- 
lessly, “a place like a cupboard?” 

His voice was husky with emotion. 

“Yes, sir, and there are — papers!” 

“Papers!” cried Mr. Morton, fairly trembling 
with eagerness. “Take them all, Dicky, every 
scrap of them.” 

Dicky was heard rustling amongst papers. Jack 
gave a quick, warning cry, George Wallace some- 
thing like a shriek, and Mr. Morton turning sud- 
denly found himself confronted by the ghastly face 
of Mrs. Miles, whiter than ever, full of a deadly 
malignity and an almost insane fury. Such a smile 
was upon her face as once seen would be remem- 
bered for a lifetime. 

Mr. Morton uttered an exclamation, but the 
woman spoke no word — simply transfixed him with 
that look, which sent the blood curdling in his 


132 The Loft Over the Long Barn 

veins, brave man that he was. In common with 
the other boys and girls, he had feared her in his 
childhood, but how much more dreadful she actually 
was than the creature of his imagination! It 
seemed as if all the evil deeds she had done had 
accumulated their traces on her face in broad lines 
for all to read. Unlike the others at the Hall, her 
hair had not grown gray, but was of a vivid red, 
contrasting with small, gray eyes, bereft of lashes, 
which somehow gave the effect of being forever 
open. 

As she looked at Mr. Morton with that evil look 
and ugly smile, he saw in her thin, claw-like hands 
a key. He glanced at the door. She had locked it. 
Following his glance, she spoke at last. Her tones 
were icy and rang hollow through the barn; they 
reached upward to the loft, so that Dicky when he 
heard them shrieked in common with the other boys 
below. 

“Do you think,” she said, “that he will ever come 
down from there with his precious find? Do you 
think I will let you help him down as you helped 
him up? Do you think that I will be baffled ? No! 
I shall do something which will defeat all your 
finely laid plans.” 

“You are mad!” said Mr. Morton, coldly, “and 


And What Was in it. 


133 

probably have been so for years, which may explain 
some of your doings.” 

And yet her threat, vague though it was, made 
Mr. Morton feel uneasy, and he wished that they 
all were safely out of the business — he and these 
boys whom he had brought into it. He was not a 
pre-eminently religious man. But he was a practical 
Catholic and had great faith. So that he immediately 
thought of praying, a short but fervent prayer. 
His wife was praying at home, he knew, in the 
oratory. He could get help from the Sacred Heart 
he honored every month by going to communion 
with his wife and giving an example to other men 
of the place, who argued somewhat in this fashion : 

“There’s Morton, who is a regular tip-top swell 
and a jolly good fellow, as well as a shrewd business 
man. He isn’t ashamed to be seen going to the 
altar.” 

And this train of reasoning brought others to 
the altar, too, just as Jack’s and Dick Dalton’s 
regular attendance at the monthly communion 
caused many a boy to do likewise. 

Mr. Morton stood, therefore, in that big, dimly 
lighted barn and prayed that the schemes of this 
wicked woman might be baffled, so that more than 
one hidden injustice might be brought to light. And 


134 The Loft Over the Long Barn 

as he prayed he said as if by inspiration, scarcely 
knowing why himself: 

“Take care! Remember Mr. Philip and Miss 
Bessie Morton, who became his wife, and the others 
whom you have wronged !” 

The woman cowered as though she had been 
struck. She staggered back against the wall, her eyes 
staring into Mr. Morton’s face, her lips contracted, 
the key falling to the floor. Mr. Morton, who had 
used the words only in a general and indefinite 
sense, could not understand the effect he had pro- 
duced, but he took immediate advantage of it. 
Quick as a flash he seized the key and then, with- 
out violence, but firmly and strongly, he pushed 
her through a half open door which led into a 
small room partitioned off from the barn. He held 
the door firmly on the outside while he called to 
Jack : 

“Quick! The padlock from the outer door!” 

This being obtained, it was but the work of a 
moment to secure the entrance to the primitive 
compartment. 

“Now,” he cried, “we must make haste to get 
Dicky down and away from this accursed spot as 
soon as possible. Never did a darker cloud of 
treachery and perhaps worse hang over any place.” 


And What Was in it. 


135 


Mrs. Miles within the compartment preserved a 
silence which was more awful than any speech 
could have been, and suggested that the fertile 
mind of the spider-like woman might be intent upon 
some new evil device. 

The boys meanwhile stood with white faces, 
visibly quaking with fear. For Mrs. Miles' ap- 
pearance and manner had been something altogether 
outside of their experience, and justified the very 
worst they had ever heard concerning Hornby Hall 
and its inmates. To get Dicky down was a much 
more difficult task than it had been to get him up, 
but it was finally accomplished. Attaching an end 
of the rope which Mr. Morton had put round his 
body to one of the beams in the ceiling, Dicky let 
himself slide down till his feet touched Jack’s 
shoulders. Mr. Morton seized him and held him 
firmly as soon as he came near, for greater security. 
Every one drew a breath of relief when Dicky was 
landed safe upon the floor. For so strained were 
their nerves by the appearance of Mrs. Miles and 
the knowledge that she still was near that they 
feared there might be an accident. 

“I wonder what has become of our sentries !” ex- 
claimed Mr. Morton; “surely they did not desert 
before the fight was well begun.” 


136 The Loft Over the Long Barn 

As he spoke thus, he gathered up the rope, the 
lanterns, and stored away with the utmost care the 
papers Dicky gave him, and which, from a hasty 
glance, he believed to be precisely what they had 
come to seek. While he was thus occupied there 
was heard a curious creaking and straining sound 
from within the adjoining room. After listening 
a moment or so, Mr. Morton went over and un- 
locked the door. Too late! the place was empty, 
a small window which he had forgotten stood open. 
With a cry of vexation, he left the barn hastily, 
calling upon the boys to put out the lanterns and 
follow him at once, keeping very close together. 

But outside the long barn was another delay. 
The boys they had supposed had run away 
lay upon the ground, breathing with some difficulty 
because of the bandage over their mouth. Luke 
was badly scared, but Hugh got up with a brave 
smile. 

“Are you hurt ?” Mr. Morton asked eagerly, for- 
getting all else. 

“Oh, no, just shaken up and out of breath,” said 
Hugh. “She came upon us so suddenly; I tried 
to warn you by calling, till the woman gagged me 
and threw me down.” 

“It wasn't a woman at all!” cried Luke, with a 


And What Was in it. 137 

shudder. “It was some awful thing. Hugh did 
call out as loud as he could.” 

“I thought I heard a call,” said Mr. Morton, 
“but we were all busy at the moment, hoisting 
Dick up, and as it was not repeated, I thought my 
ears had deceived me. But it will be all right now, 
if we once can get clear of the grounds.” 

Somehow he felt uneasy indeed, for he knew 
that Mrs. Miles was a woman of resources and that 
she was just now desperate. He marshalled his 
little force in close order, keeping every one under 
his immediate eye, and so they pushed on till they 
found themselves once more in the courtyard. They 
crept along in the shadow of the outbuildings till 
they had almost reached the narrow lane, which 
was the point of danger. Suddenly they all stood 
still with one accord, their further progress arrested 
by a strange sight. 


CHAPTER XII. 


MRS. MILES PLAYS A COMEDY. 

T he whole of Hornby Hall, or at least that 
portion of it giving upon the courtyard in 
which they actually were and the lane through which 
they had to pass, was suddenly lit up as by a flash. 
Electric light was comparatively little used, as yet, in 
Ironton, and the effect was, to say the least, startling, 
the more so that it proved the household to be on 
the alert. The boys drew closer to their leader, with 
the flush of the excitement on their cheeks and a 
quick beating of the heart. They stood still for 
a moment, when Mr. Morton ordered them, gazing 
at that ill-starred dwelling, with its stern walls look- 
ing white and wan in the glare from within. A 
sound passed through the poplars, the moaning of 
the wind in their tops, which seemed to the excited 
fancy of the listeners like some sinister prophecy 
of evil. But within the mansion everything seemed 
still. Not a sound proceeded from door or window. 

Mr. Morton, bidding the boys remain where they 
were, crept forward to reconnoitre. He was care- 
ts 


Mrs. Miles Plays a Comedy. 139 

ful to keep as far as possible out of range of any 
concealed weapon which the malice of Mrs. Miles 
or the mistake of some one else might aim at him. 
For what more likely than that he and his little band 
might be mistaken for burglars, even though Mrs. 
Miles did not purposely give the alarm? 

It did not seem probable to Mr. Morton that Mrs. 
Miles would disclose his identity to her master. He 
became somewhat assured that there were many 
mysteries, from which the curtain had already been 
partially lifted that evening, which would prevent 
her from so acting. But the woman was one hard 
to reckon with, and there was always the possibility 
of the master of Hornby himself being on the 
alert. 

However, as everything seemed quiet when he 
reached the entrance to the lane, he swung his lan- 
tern as a signal for the boys to come. They obeyed, 
hastening forward as swiftly and silently as young 
Indians. They had got over most of the terror 
which had seized them in the long barn at sight of 
Mrs. Miles, and now some of them were almost 
wishing, with the foolish confidence of youth, that 
something would happen. 

They followed Mr. Morton into the lane, where 
they found themselves as before uncomfortably 


140 Mrs. Miles Plays a Comedy. 

close to the house, the light now throwing each of 
their figures into distinct relief. And when they 
had reached about the middle of that narrow 
passage, they saw to their dismay the great stone 
gate at the end swing to upon its hinges. It could 
not be opened from the inside, as Mr. Morton well 
knew, and he gave a low cry of anger. 

As they stood still in consternation, a laugh 
which was like no sound the boys had ever heard 
suddenly broke on the stillness. Even Mr. Mor- 
ton's stout heart quailed at the mocking outburst 
which he knew proceeded from the malice of a des- 
perate woman. Presently a voice spoke, icy in tone, 
with a deadly hissing sound : 

“Caught like rats in a trap! Shoot, master, fair 
and straight!" 

Though the figure of the woman was hidden from 
them, a hand was seen outstretched and a long, bony 
finger pointed straight at Mr. Morton. 

“Don’t let him escape!" the voice cried again, 
“for he’s carrying away what you have sought for 
many a day. Tell him to drop the papers and you 
won’t shoot." 

Mr. Morton only felt in his breast coat-pocket 
to be sure that the papers were safe. Then he 
crouched down close to the ground, motioning the 


Mrs. Miles Plays a Comedy. 141 

boys to do likewise. The unearthly laugh rang out 
again with the words : 

“Oh, you must wait till they rise, master, or can 
you get a good aim there near the ground?” 

One of the boys, Georgie Wallace, who was the 
smallest of them all, had begun to wiggle toward 
the gate. What he meant to do when he got there 
he didn’t precisely know, but when he reached it 
he found his move had not been such a bad one. 
The earth had been washed away somewhat by the 
rains from one portion of the gate and, seeing this, 
the boy began to dig with both hands, throwing 
up showers of earth like a little mole. He tried 
once to squeeze himself through the aperture, but 
it was not large enough, so he went to work again 
with a will. He was in a much safer position than 
any of the others, being farther from the window 
and less likely to be a target for any invisible marks- 
man. And as he worked, he reflected : 

“All the others have done something or had some 
share in the business. Only I have done nothing. 
So if I could get the gate open for them, it would 
be a fine thing.” 

His steady work was rewarded, and in a very 
few minutes Georgie stood panting and breathless 
on the other side of the gate. 


142 Mrs. Miles Plays a Comedy. 

“Shoot some of the rascals — they are trying to 
escape. Shoot at once, master, or it will be too 
late,” screamed the voice. 

And just then there was a diversion. A second 
voice was heard within the room and, astounding 
sight! an old man was wheeled into the square of 
light by a second old man, who moved like an 
automaton. 

“What is going on here?” cried the man in the 
chair. “Why is the house lit up? What comedy 
are you playing, Mrs. Miles?” 

“It is no comedy, but more like a tragedy,” an- 
swered the woman, who was evidently disconcerted 
by this sudden appearance. 

“Tragedy! Pshaw! The tempest in a teapot of 
a nervous woman!” 

“Tempest in a teapot, if you will, but a man 
and half a dozen young rascals have been trying 
to — rob the hen-roost.” 

The lie was told with deliberation, but the sneer- 
ing voice of the master, so like and yet so unlike 
her own, caught at the word. 

“The hen-roost, woman, the hen-roost! Is that 
a reason I am to be deprived of my rest and Hornby 
Hall made a beacon for all the prying knaves in 
the country?” 


Mrs. Miles Plays a Comedy. 143 

The woman was silent, and the master of Hornby 
ordered his attendant: 

“Wheel me to my room, Hodgkins, and you, you 
jade, put out these lights as soon as I have reached 
there.” 

“But if it wasn’t the hen-roost alone?” 

“What, then?” 

“Hornby Hall itself might be fair game for a 
gang of thieves.” 

“Hornby Hall ! They haven’t entered the house ?” 

“No, but—” 

“But — no buts!” cried the despotic old man. 
“Some thievish country louts may be lurking about 
in search of a fowl or two ! Wheel me away, I say, 
Hodgkins !” 

The woman made no further attempt to stop 
him. Perhaps she was not too anxious for him to 
inquire further. When the grating sound of the 
invalid chair had died away in the distance, there 
was an interval when all was darkness; then the 
light blazed out again, and the bony finger pointed. 

But the noise of the invalid’s chair was followed 
by another — the creaking of the great gate upon 
its hinges as Georgie Wallace pushed it open from 
the outside. And there stood the opening, framed 
in its frowning iron. Through it, with a half-sup- 


144 Mrs. Miles Plays a Comedy. 

pressed shout of exultation, the boys bounded, fol- 
lowed by Mr. Morton. 

“Bravo, my brave George, bravo!” cried the 
leader, and all the boys joined in a chorus of ap- 
plause for George’s plucky deed. 

“She might have kept us there all night,” said 
Jack to Mr. Morton. That gentleman responded 
seriously : 

“God knows what she might have done. She 
would have been capable of doing anything to get 
back those papers, but she was foiled at every turn 
and she dared not tell the master.” 

Then they hurried homeward through the deep- 
ening darkness of the middle night, a prayer of 
thankfulness on their leader’s lips and the fragrance 
of trees and gardens meeting them once more, with 
a twofold force and sweetness because of the rank 
atmosphere they had escaped. 

And here is what Mr. Morton saw when he 
locked himself in his study, with his wife leaning 
over his shoulder, to take a hurried glance at the 
papers. In the first place, the last will and testa- 
ment of Philip Pemberton, which he put aside to 
read on the morrow. In the next, a faded and dis- 
colored sheet of paper, on which had been hastily 
scribbled : 


Mrs. Miles Plays a Comedy. 145 

“This paper I will put in the hiding-place with 
my dear Philip’s will. God grant it be found some 
day, to explain whatever mystery may be about my 
fate. For here I have been shut up by the arch- 
fiend of a woman, she having first drugged me, be- 
cause I had come to the knowledge of at least one 
awful secret, which I shudder to recall.” 

Husband and wife together, with pale faces, pro- 
ceeded to read the detailed account of certain events 
which had followed upon each other. They inter- 
rupted their reading with many exclamations of 
wonder, of amazement, of horror. What they read 
shall be explained hereafter in this simple narra- 
tive, and shall throw some light on all the darkness 
which had enshrouded Hornby Hall. 

“This must be laid before old Pemberton,” said 
Mr. Morton, “at the earliest moment.” 

His wife assented dumbly. She could not speak 
at first. Her agitation was too great. Only she 
gasped out : 

“Thank God, Harry, that you and all the boys 
are safe out of that dreadful place.” 

“And thank God, too, that Mary need never go 
back to it,” said Harry Morton. “But I will 
examine all these papers carefully before any step 
is taken.” 




r 

CHAPTER XIII. 

PREPARATIONS FOR THE GREAT EVENT. 

I t was not until the following morning that Mr. 

Morton could give his wife any details of the 
expedition which had ended so fortunately. When 
all had been related to her she could not help shud- 
dering at thought of some of the events of that 
memorable night. She told him in turn how Mar- 
jorie and she had gone to the oratory to pray, light- 
ing the candles at their little shrine, and that when 
all was ready Marjorie had brought Mary in, amidst 
her expressions of the greatest delight and wonder. 

“I never saw any beautiful pictures like those,” 
Mary had said, pointing to the pictures of Christ 
and the Mother of Sorrows. “I would like to know 
who they are.” 

“Marjorie was quite scandalized at first,” Mrs. 
Morton said ; “she could not understand such 
ignorance. Mary exclaimed that no one ever prayed 
at Hornby Hall. I can see that religion is as 

146 



Preparations for the Great Event. 147 

carefully shut out from that place as poetry or 
sentiment or anything that makes live beautiful.” 

“It was high time she was removed from that 
atmosphere/’ remarked Mr. Morton, “and I certainly 
will never permit her to cross its threshold again, 
unless perhaps, if many things are cleared up, as 
a guest. But now we must get to work, for I am 
determined to have our great celebration no later 
than Thursday night.” 

“Thursday will not be long in coming,” suggested 
Mrs. Morton, doubtfully. “Would it not be better 
to postpone it a few days?” 

“No, no!” I promised Marjorie and the boys,” 
persisted Mr. Morton, “and it can be done by rush- 
ing things a little. By the way, won’t Mary need 
some girls’ fixings for the party?” 

“I have thought of that,” declared Mrs. Morton ; 
“I sent some measurements to Wanamaker some 
days ago, with all details as to how I wanted a 
frock made. A very pretty white dress arrived half 
an hour ago. With some vivid scarlet flowers from 
the garden to brighten her up, Cinderella will be 
quite transformed. I am going to ask her to try it 
on this afternoon, so that Julie can make any 
necessary alterations. I ordered some smaller things 
as well, shoes, and ribbons, and gloves.” 


148 Preparations for the Great Event. 

“Capital!” exclaimed Mr. Morton, rubbing his 
hands in great delight. “I’m as big a boy as any 
of the Mayfair crowd, and I feel as if I couldn’t 
wait till Thursday to see the girl in her new finery. 
By George! it’s like living in a fairy tale just 
now.” 

He hurried off to the garden, where his personal 
supervision was urgently required in the great prepa- 
rations that were being made. One or two of 
the tallest trees had to be sacrificed, and a platform 
for the musicians had to be erected over some 
flower beds so carefully as not to damage them. 
Another and larger platform was also erected 
whereon games might be played and the dancing 
take place, which was to consist of Virginia reels 
and old-fashioned quadrilles calculated to delight 
the souls of these Ironton boys and girls. For they 
were, in fact, boys and girls, and not little old men 
and women, as is too often the case. Even the older 
boys with their college airs had wholesome and 
simple instincts and could enjoy any form of fun. 

Mr. Morton devoted himself all that day and the 
next to the decoration of the garden. In this he 
was ably assisted by the Mayfair boys. Chinese 
lanterns of glowing red were hung upon the trees. 
Amongst the rose-bushes and flowering shrubs were 


Preparations for the Great Event. 149 

placed smaller lights, which would give a delight- 
ful effect when the great day arrived. 

Fancy booths decorated in the daintiest of colors 
were erected for the serving of ices and fruits, cakes 
and confections of all sorts, bonbons innumerable, 
and such iced drinks as were suitable for young 
and old. It was sorely against Marjorie’s will that 
she and Mary were excluded from all these outdoor 
preparations, for Mr. Morton wished the scene in 
the garden to be as complete a surprise as possible. 
With this object in view, Mary had to be kept in 
the house and excluded from that region of delight. 
She and Marjorie were very honorable about it, and 
when they passed the stair window, which would 
have given them an excellent view of all that was 
going on, they resolutely shut their eyes. One 
thing, however, irritated Marjorie very much, and 
that was the sound of Jack’s eager voice in the 
garden below. 

“Won’t he give himself airs after this,” she 
cried, “with his patronizing ‘we did this’ and ‘we 
did that’.” 

Mrs. Morton set the girls to work making 
mottoes for her, giving them for materials colored 
paper to fashion into shape, and a great box of 
small candies and sheets of old-fashioned verses to 


1 50 Preparations for the Great Event. 

wrap and arrange. This they found a delightful 
occupation which whiled away the time till that 
other event to which Marjorie was looking forward 
and in which neither Jack nor any other boy could 
have a part. That was the trying on of Mary’s new 
frock, whose very existence was still a secret to its 
fortunate owner. So, as she sat and snipped at the 
paper, fingering out the ends of the mottoes care- 
fully so that they might be as nearly as possible like 
the old-fashioned ones in use in Mrs. Morton’s 
schoolgirl days, Marjorie kept a watchful eye upon 
the clock. 

In a flash a sudden recollection had come to 
Mary. She laid down her scissors and let the 
colored paper fall from her hand. 

‘‘What is it?” asked Marjorie, looking up quickly 
and sympathetically. 

“Oh, Marjorie!” cried poor Mary, “Thursday is 
so near. Won’t it be dreadful!” 

“Mary,” said Marjorie solemnly, “I’m sure my 
father doesn’t intend to let you go back till the next 
day, anyhow.” 

“Oh, I can’t stay another day — they would kill 
me,” wailed Mary, “and yet I feel as if I could 
never go back.” 

“Do you think if my father thought of letting 


Preparations for the Great Event. 15 i 

you go he would have had the party on Thursday 
night ?” 

Mary's face brightened a little, but she was not 
very hopeful. To her, Mrs. Miles and the dreadful 
grandfather were omnipotent. They could not be 
defied. Just then Mrs. Morton came in to get the 
two girls. They were almost finished with their 
task of motto-making, so she sat down for a few 
minutes and helped them in the cutting and snipping 
to hasten matters. 

Then they all went up to Mary’s room, where 
Julie, the French maid, with a genius for needle- 
work, was in waiting. There was^a large box on 
the bed. 

“You may wait in Miss Marjorie’s room, Julie, 
till I call!” said Mrs. Morton, and when the door 
had closed on the woman’s somewhat reluctant 
figure, for she was human and would willingly have 
assisted at the little scene which followed, Mrs. 
Morton said: 

“Mary, you know there is to be a party to-mor- 
row night.” 

“But I shall be back at Hornby,” Mary sighed. 

“Not quite so soon, my dear,” protested the good 
lady; “that will, however, be explained later.” 

She was interrupted by a voice from without: 


152 Preparations for the Great Event. 

“Hurry up, in there! and get the child into her 
fixings. I want to come in and have a share of 
the fun.” 

Mrs. Morton smiled. 

“At a party,” she explained to Mary, “every 
one will be gaily dressed. Marjorie is going 
to wear pink muslin.” 

Mary’s face turned crimson. 

“I, I, am afraid I can’t be at the party. I should 
look awful, for I, I haven’t any dress like that.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Morton, “your grandfather 
would naturally never give any attention to such 
things, but a woman like myself who has a daugh- 
ter knows all about it. So I chose this frock for 
you, my dear. The best I could do in a short time. 
Come over and look at it.” 

Mary went forward mechanically and stood be- 
side her kind friend. The box was opened and the 
gown lifted out. Mary stood stupefied. Even Mar- 
jorie had nothing so pretty. That same convulsive 
working of the face which marked her deep emotion, 
and the slow dropping of the tears, were Mary’s 
answer, as she turned grateful eyes to Mrs. Morton. 

“Oh, it is too beautiful for me to wear !” she said 
at last. “I have never had anything like it, never 
anything at all but dull gray and brown.” 


Preparations for the Great Event. 153 

“Well, this is your very own and you are going 
to try it on now, at once, so that Julie may see if it 
needs any alteration,” said Mrs. Morton. 

There was another impatient thump on the door 
from Mr. Morton. His wife hastened to help Mary 
into her new finery, while Marjorie hopped from 
one foot to the other in glee, admiring the gown 
and its transforming effect upon her friend. Then 
she rushed to the door to admit her father, who 
laughed in his whole-hearted way and rubbed his 
hands, declaring that Mary was like a fairy queen. 
After that there was more diving into the box, 
which gave forth gloves, fans, bright-colored rib- 
bons, and other pretty knick-knacks, that fairly be- 
wildered poor Mary. 

“And,” said Mr. Morton, “I may as well tell you 
that you are not going back to Hornby on Thurs- 
day, no, nor on any other day that I know of.” 

“I am not going back to Hornby !” Mary 
repeated, slowly. 

“Not if I know it. Not even if you wish to go!” 
cried Mr. Morton, laughing. “You are my prisoner 
now and I’ll keep you more securely than your last 
jailer did. So just make up your mind, Miss Mary 
Pemberton, to settle down here in this little room 
beside our Marjorie.” 


154 Preparations for the Great Event. 

With that, Julie came in for some final touches 
to the costume and Mr. Morton went away. When 
Marjorie and Mary finally were left alone, Marjorie 
hugged Mary delightedly, exclaiming gleefully: 

“Oh, isn’t it splendid that you are to live here 
always and will never go back to that awful Mrs. 
Miles and Hornby!” 

Mary could only laugh and cry and repeat over 
and over that she couldn’t believe it true, that she 
knew she would have to go back, and that her 
grandfather and Mrs. Miles would be terribly 
angry. 

When Mr. Morton descended to the garden he 
was greeted by Jack Holland, eager and full of 
enthusiasm. 

“I tell you, sir, it’s going to be a regular tip-top 
affair,” he cried, “the finest that has ever been in 
Ironton.” 

“We’ve got up about two hundred lanterns al- 
ready,” announced Dick, whose face was very red 
and whose hands were soiled with earth. Hugh 
was seen in the distance digging ; Luke Mor- 
ris was up a tree with his mouth full of tacks 
and his hands of twine, and the Wallace boys were 
handing him up lanterns. 

“Oh, I say, Uncle Harry,” went on Dick, “it’s 


Preparations for the Great Event. 155 

prime, and getting ready is just as much fun as 
the party.” 

“More, perhaps,” asserted Mr. Morton, “anti- 
cipation means so much. But wait till you fellows 
see the girl you helped to rescue, all fixed up in her 
new toggery. And while I think of it, I want you 
all to be here at four o’clock sharp to-morrow, 
Thursday afternoon, that is, if you want to feel a 
glow of honest pride.” 

“We’ll all be here,” agreed Jack, though, as Mr. 
Morton explained no further, he was rather in the 
dark as to the reason for the invitation and the hint 
about honest pride. He thought the glow would 
come in better about 8 P. M., when the result of 
their labors would be apparent to at least half the 
population of Ironton. He made no remark, but 
went back to work, like the rest, with curiosity un- 
satisfied. 

When Mrs. Morton came down to take a final 
survey of the garden, she was delighted. Only, she 
remarked to her husband, with a little doubtful air : 

“My dear, it almost seems as if this would have 
been more appropriate when everything is cleared 
up and the battle fought and won.” 

“I want it to come now!” declared Mr. Morton. 
“I want to blow a whole blast of victory before the 


156 Preparations for the Great Event. 

fight begins. I guess the news of Thursday night’s 
doings will penetrate even into Hornby Hall.” 

So Mrs. Morton said no more, but continued her 
preparations within doors. For she had a couple of 
pastry-cooks up from Philadelphia who were 
making many delicacies in the house, though many 
things were coming up by train on the day of the 
festivity. For the Mortons were not people to do 
things by halves; and though it was first of all a 
children’s party, all the old, gray-headed children 
who had kept enough youth about them for such 
frolics had been bidden to the feast by the swift 
feet of the Mayfair boys, who acted as mercuries. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


A DELIGHTFUL FESTIVITY. 

O N Thursday afternoon by four o’clock every- 
thing was in readiness for the wonderful 
festivity of the evening. But an event was yet to 
happen which while it lasted dulled the keen edge 
of anticipation. Mr. and Mrs. Morton waited at 
the head of the steps, surrounded by all the boys 
and girls, forming a circle around Mary. The little 
girl was pale and faint, and despite her kind pro- 
tectors seemed oppressed with fear. She knew and 
they did not the powers against which they were 
contending. All the vague terrors and mysteries 
which, more even than positive ill-treatment, 
weighed upon her at Hornby Hall seemed to con- 
centrate about her in those moments of suspense. 
The unfortunate child felt that Fate, which was 
represented to her by Mrs. Miles, must be against 
any efforts for her rescue. 

i57 


158 A Delightful Festivity. 

There was silence in the group. No one could 
speak till that critical moment had come and gone. 
It was on the stroke of four. T e hush, which had 
seemed to deepen, was broken by the noise of wheels 
Upon the road. The same premonitory cloud of 
dust arose as before from the highway and the 
lumbering van-like carriage of Hornby Hall rolled 
on steadily toward the Mortons’ gate. 

Involuntarily the boys and girls closed in around 
Mary, as though forming a bodyguard for her de- 
fense. The carriage entered at the gate and drove 
slowly around the drive, stopping at the foot of the 
steps. The white-haired coachman touched his 
hat and in the manner of an automaton addressed 
Mr. Morton. 

“For the young lady, sir,” was all he said, after 
which he sat staring motionless before him, as 
though he saw some strange object which riveted 
his attention. 

“You can return to Hornby as you came!” said 
Mr. Morton. The man stared. 

“Mr. Pemberton bade me say he is waiting with 
his watch in his hand for the young lady,” he 
mumbled in a listless tone. 

“I am afraid his hand will get very tired if he 
does that,” commented Mr. Morton; “so you had 


A Delightful Festivity. 159 

better make haste back to tell him that the young 
lady is not returning to Hornby at four o’clock to- 
day, nor on any other day or at any hour that I 
know of.” 

Here was defiance. Mary gazed at the carriage 
with distended, frightened eyes. The boys held their 
breath. In fact, they seemed to have been doing so 
ever since Mr. Morton told them what he wanted 
of them at the particular hour of four. The coach- 
man touched his hat again, but instead of turning 
away, began to drive slowly up and down before 
the door, as if waiting for some one who must surely 
come out of the house and get into the carriage. 
Mary felt in this the relentless purpose which 
seemed to pursue her and which would ultimately 
triumph. At length Mr. Morton spoke to the 
automaton on the box of the coach : 

“You had better go back and relieve Mr. Pem- 
berton’s anxiety.” 

“I daren’t, sir, without the young lady.” 

“I think the old gentleman’s anger will not grow 
less if you keep him waiting after the hour.” 

This argument seemed to have some weight with 
the man. He gave a curious, questioning look at 
Mary, where she stood amongst the girls and boys. 

“You had better come, Miss,” he declared, 


160 A Delightful Festivity. 

quietly. “Your grandfather and Mrs. Miles are 
waiting for you.” 

Mary trembled all over, and so strong was the 
force of habit that if left to herself she would as- 
suredly have got into that dreary van, and have 
been driving away staring straight before her in an 
intensity of mental anguish. Nor would this latter 
feeling have been lessened by the thought that her 
grandfather’s watch would have shown her to be 
several minutes late. 

“You, you had better go!” cried Mr. Morton, 
more sternly than before. “Mr. Pemberton and 
Mrs. Miles may want you.” 

The automaton reflected a moment more, then 
he touched his hat and drove away, slowly until he 
was nearly out of sight of the house. Further on 
he was seen to urge his horses to their fullest speed. 
After that the boys and girls sat for some time 
quite still, vaguely sharing Mary’s terror. The 
sights and sounds which the boys, at least, re- 
membered since their nocturnal visit to the Hall 
did not tend to reassure them. 

Something of the chill of Hornby Hall had crept 
into the atmosphere, and the face of Mrs. Miles, 
as they recalled it, sent a coldness even to the bravest 
hearts. It seemed, too, as if that dreadful poten- 


A Delightful Festivity. 161 

tate, who had ruled at the dreary dwelling so long, 
must despatch some messenger of evil to avenge 
his discomfiture, and as if the iron will, which had 
ordered events so long, must in the end prevail. 
Mr. Morton himself was paler and graver than 
usually he was and Mrs. Morton was visibly fright- 
ened, but the former laid a reassuring hand on 
Mary’s shoulder. 

“You see the old shandrydan didn’t swallow you 
up after all. You don’t belong to some enchanted 
palace in the olden time, but to the land of the free. 
You may be certain, my dear, that from this day 
forth you will be as free as it is well for a good, 
Catholic girl to be.” 

Mrs. Morton put an arm round Mary and 
whispered : 

“You poor dear! you poor dear!” Marjorie and 
Dollie were very near crying. 

“And now, boys, for the glow of honest pride!” 
cried Mr. Morton. “Don’t you feel it in your 
sturdy, American hearts? You have helped me to 
make this thing possible and to show cause for my 
act. You have saved Mary from Hornby Hall. 
While you know a little of the matter yourselves and 
have helped so well in what has been accomplished, 
I cannot as yet give you all details. So three cheers 


1 62 A Delightful Festivity. 

for Mary Pemberton, and away with you all, to 
make ready for to-night.” 

The three cheers were lustily given. They may 
have reached the driver of the dismal van if he was 
not too far off, and they certainly rang through 
Ironton with a sound to make men and women 
raise their heads and ask : “What’s going on up to 
Mortons’ ?” 

There were great things going on, in truth, and 
after that first shiver of natural fear, the boys were 
exultant, proud of what they had done, and of the 
very secret, which though it was on the tip of their 
tongue they had to keep for the present. Their 
mothers and fathers could not imagine what it all 
meant and what was the matter amongst the boys. 
Dicky Dalton, when he had completed his toilet for 
the party and stood before his mother to display his 
finery, suddenly exclaimed: 

“Mr. Morton’s a brick, I tell you. Just wait till 
you see Mary!” 

“Is she a brick, too?” inquired the mother. 

Dicky reflected. He was a very loyal-hearted 
boy and he felt very sorry for Mary, but he was 
not quite sure that so strong an adjective could be 
applied to her. It would be far more suitable, he 
thought, for Marjorie. He could hardly explain 


r A Delightful Festivity. 163 

the difference to himself. Yet he liked Mary and 
felt sure he would like her even better when she 
had been longer a member of the Mayfair circle. 

“Mary isn’t exactly a brick/’ he replied to his 
mother’s question. 

“What, then?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, mother dear. Wait till you 
see her and hear all about her.” 

This was pretty much the burden of all the boys’ 
talk, though Jack was more patronizing and dog- 
matic in his expression of opinion: “Mary isn’t a 
half-bad sort of girl, considering the rum life she 
has led, and she has a good deal of style and looks 
like a lady.” 

With all of them, including those college youths 
of pretensions, eight o’clock upon that memorable 
evening seemed a very long way off. At last it 
rang out from the belfry of the Presbyterian 
Church, its strokes falling impressively on the air, 
as though they were saying: 

“Now it is time! Now it is time!” 

Dick Dalton had an uncomfortable feeling that 
they said more than that. 

“Hornby Hall! Hornby Hall! Hornby Hall!” 
sounded in his ears at every peal. He mentioned 
this fancy of his to Jack and certain others of the 


164 A Delightful Festivity. 

boys, but they promptly silenced him, for it gave 
them an uncomfortable, creepy feeling. And that 
when they all were setting out in their best clothes 
along a very dark road to that wonderful festival 
of the Mortons. Dick was glad when the bell 
stopped ringing, though by that time he and his 
companions were drawing near to the Mortons’ 
gate. The older people were invited for an hour 
later, as the host and hostess had decided that the 
young folks should have things all their own way 
for a while. When the boys entered that dazzling 
garden, they looked about them dazed, though they 
themselves had helped to produce the effect. Dicky 
caught Jack by the sleeve. 

“Look there!” he cried excitedly, “look there!” 

And both turned their eyes to where Mary stood 
in one of the fairy-like marquees, receiving with 
Mrs. Morton and Marjorie. 


CHAPTER XV. 


MARY IS A CENTER OF ATTRACTION. 

F ollowing Dick’s example, Jack stood quite still 
and looked at Mary. In all the wonderful 
scene before them there was nothing so wonderful 
as the transformation of that girl. Her slender, 
upright figure was fitted to perfection by the pretty, 
yet not too elaborate gown. Her cheeks glowed 
like the scarlet geraniums at her neck and in her 
belt, her dark eyes shone with happiness and the 
excitement of the occasion. For she was happy. 
She seemed to have cast off every fear and to enter 
into the enjoyment around her with a zest and 
relish which no other girl or boy amongst all those 
who filled the garden could imagine. For the others 
had experienced something of the sort before, had 
been in gaily dressed crowds and had seen young 
people of their own age enjoying themselves to 
the full. 


1 66 Mary is a Center of Attraction. 

“Dick!” whispered Jack, “she looks like some of 
those girls in the Arabian nights, or those sort of 
things.” 

“Yes,” said Dick, “she’s like those enchanted 
princesses we used to read about when we were 
kids. I hardly dare speak to her.” 

“But we must, you know,” declared Jack, with 
that self-confident manner which he used at col- 
lege when acting as usher on festive occasions. Dick 
followed him silently, and as they neared where 
Mary stood Jack plucked a flower. 

“Mary,” he said, “here is a very nice, sweet- 
smelling rose. I hope you will wear it at your 
belt.” 

“Thank you!” said Mary, simply. “It is very 
kind of you,” while Jack looked round to note how 
many persons saw and approved his act of gal- 
lantry. 

Mr. Morton was in the thick of the fun now, 
calling upon all the boys and girls to join in a great 
Virginia Reel and making Mary dance with him 
because she didn’t know a step. Or again, he led 
a jovial Blind Man’s Buff, or started Musical 
Chairs and Hunt the Slipper. 

Mary, it must be owned, had been completely 
dazed on coming into the garden. She had stood 


Mary is a Center of Attraction. 167 

very white and still, her hands clasped, looking as 
if she could never look enough. The countless 
lights flashed upon her with a marvelous brilliancy, 
softened yet not obscured by the foliage; the lan- 
terns in the trees seemed like great globes of fire 
and those hung on the bushes threw into relief the 
rich coloring or the delicate whiteness of the 
flowers. It was a gorgeous effect of light and color 
and warmth, all of which elements had been want- 
ing in Mary’s narrow life, while the rich perfume 
of many flowers and blossoming trees, blended with 
the exquisite strains of the orchestra, rendered it 
all the more dream-like. 

After a time, as the boys and girls whom she 
knew came in, she was conscious of a pleasant sense 
of companionship, feeling that they all were her 
friends, while they, in turn, vied with one another 
in the warmth of their greetings, just as if they 
had known her all their life. Mary entered very 
quickly and fully into the spirit of the games and 
delighted in the intricacies of the various dances, 
which she followed lightly and gracefully, laughing 
heartily when she made a mistake. She seemed to 
have entirely shaken off, for the first time in her 
life, the malign shadow of Mrs. Miles, behind which 
sat her grandfather, and she felt as if in reality 


1 68 Mary is a Center of Attraction. 

a new life had begun for her and the old one had 
been left behind forever. 

She went about with her friends to the various 
tents, tasting the delicious lemonade and sweet 
things. The ices she thought were too beautiful 
almost to touch, varying in design from a bird of 
paradise, with its tail of flaming gold, to a basket 
of pink roses on a high-turreted castle. She parti- 
cularly enjoyed playing hostess with Marjorie to 
the groups of smaller children, pressing upon them 
the various dainties, which many of this smaller 
contingent eyed with wistful wonder. Mr. Morton 
had invited the children of all degrees, without 
distinction as to classes. 

Also when the “grown-ups” arrived it was seen 
that notes of invitation had been sent not only to 
the Pomeroys and the Gerards and the Carpenters 
and a score or so of other families who represented 
the gentility of the place, but also to John Worth, 
and Jeremiah O’Meara, and various other local 
worthies. It was a sort of patriarchal festival, the 
first of its kind ever given by the Mortons, who 
were exclusive and conservative to a marked 
degree. Every one felt very much at home, for 
they all knew one another after a fashion. The 
wealthier folks showed the cordial courtesy of their 


Mary is a Center of Attraction. 169 

good breeding to their humbler neighbors, who 
returned it in kind, with a pleasant geniality and 
a hearty, if somewhat rough good will. Most of 
the latter, indeed, departed somewhat early in the 
evening, so that the intimates were left behind to 
wind up the affair in a great frolic. 

When all were assembled, however, and before 
any one had left, Mr. Morton presented Mary as 
the guest of honor and announced that she, being 
his ward, was hereafter to remain under his guard- 
ianship. This caused a great sensation amongst 
the older folks, and brought joy to the hearts of 
the Mayfair boys and girls. Mr. Morton had to 
meet a shower of questions from his friends as to 
the new state of affairs, and as to how he had ever 
persuaded old Pemberton to give up his grand- 
daughter. Little groups likewise discussed in well- 
bred whispers the past relations between the 
Pembertons and Mortons, the break that had come, 
which had been generally supposed would be per- 
manent. 

Mary’s looks and bearing were much commented 
upon, some seeing a resemblance in the girl to her 
mother and others vowing she was a Pemberton. 
Mary shook hands with every one present, showing 
a grave friendliness and interest in all. Singular 


170 Mary is a Center of Attraction. 

as it may seem, she was by no means shy. She 
returned the cordial pressure of old Jeremiah 
O’Meara’s hand as warmly as she did the greeting 
of the dignified gentleman with gold-rimmed spec- 
tacles and imposing air who offered a friendly, if 
somewhat pompous recognition to the daughter of 
a once prominent house. In fact, Mary rather pre- 
ferred Jeremiah of the two, because the other in 
some remote way reminded her of her grandfather, 
whom he spoke of familiarly as Tom. Mary, trans- 
fixed by the gold spectacles, wondered vaguely if 
the speaker knew Mrs. Miles as well. 

“Tom Pemberton, your grandfather, my dear,” 
began the old gentleman, pausing to clear his throat, 
while Mary, gazing fixedly at the spectacles, thought 
there was something strange in calling her grand- 
father Tom, and intimating that he had ever been 
a boy or had other than white hair. 

“Tom Pemberton was a gay lad,” the old gentle- 
man went on, chuckling to himself, “eh, you remem- 
ber, O’Meara?” 

“I do that, sir,” replied Jeremiah; “ a fine young 
gentleman he was when first I came to the 
place.” 

“Just so,” the old gentleman agreed, “and a wild 
blade, up to his ears in every kind of mischief.” 


Mary is a Center of Attraction. 171 

Mary could scarcely believe her ears. It was 
monstrous. The old gentleman must be dreaming. 

“A wild blade!” she repeated mechanically to 
herself. She did not know what the word meant 
thus applied, but she concluded it was something 
which did not fit her grandfather. She knew what 
mischief meant. Mrs. Miles had often given that 
name to some of her own most innocent acts and 
had accused her of being up to mischief. But that 
her grandfather should be similarly accused seemed 
incredible. 

“Oh, I could make you laugh,” continued the old 
gentleman, “at some of his pranks at college. For 
we were in the same year and I sat close beside him. 
I remember him, for example, riding round the 
room upon a make-believe hobby-horse and upset- 
ting the Professor who chanced to be coming in 
the door.” 

This was too dreadful. It seemed like profan- 
ation and as if she would be punished for hearing 
such things said. She continued to look solemnly 
at the old gentleman, who laughed immoderately, 
supported by Jeremiah, at the picture he had con- 
jured up. Suddenly, Mary’s face relaxed and she, 
too, joined in the laugh. For the sense of humor 
inherited from her mother made her suddenly aware 


172 Mary is a Center of Attraction. 

that it was intensely funny so to imagine her grand- 
father. She laughed and laughed till the tears ran 
down her cheeks, and people began to stare at the 
spectacle of the two old men and the grave child 
laughing together uncontrollably. The more she 
laughed the more they laughed, too, and others 
joined, without understanding the jest, but from 
the simple contagion of merriment, till there was 
quite a laughing chorus. 

In the main, Mary liked all the guests, just be- 
cause they were real persons, persons who had been 
so long a mystery to her, represented to her as they 
were only by Mrs. Miles, her grandfather, and 
the servants, who seldom spoke. Probably, how- 
ever, the best part of the evening was when all were 
gone except the Mayfair boys and girls, who stayed 
a while after the others and talked things over. 
Meeting every day in that pleasant place, amongst 
the trees and in the long grass, they had all their 
amusements in common. Somehow, they seemed 
to fit in together; they were sworn comrades all 
and their chaffing of each other was nearly always 
good-natured; and they had the same jests and, to 
a great extent, the same way of looking at things. 
Mary felt they all were her brothers and sisters, 
ready to stand by her till the end. 


Mary is a Center of Attraction. 173 

Even Marie Lewis forgot her young lady airs 
with Mary and was as simple and natural almost as 
Marjorie, and Florence was fast developing into 
the sort of girl like Dollie Martin, whom every one 
liked. Kitty Hogan was the newcomer’s devoted 
champion and would not hear a word said deroga- 
tory to her looks or her manners or her speech. So 
they all sat and talked in that lovely garden, 
which was now a “banquet-hall deserted.” Every 
detail of the evening’s festivity was discussed and 
they sang a few jolly choruses, winding up with that 
old and familiar ditty, applied now to Mr. Morton : 

“He’s a jolly good fellow, 

Which nobody can deny.” 

Many of the revelers who had not yet reached 
home caught the well-known strain and joined in 
it, to the confusion of the quiet village of Ironton 
and the few stay-at-homes who for one reason or 
another had not been present. It also set many a dog 
barking, as even in their canine way they, too, desired 
to join in the chorus. Even the staid old Mt. 
St. Bernard came out of his kennel and solemnly 
bayed at the foolish ones who did not know at 
what they were barking. This sent Marjorie into 
a paroxysm of laughter, after which she hugged 


174 Mary is a Center of Attraction. 

Mary and said she was “a dear” and that “it was 
lovely to think she would always be with them.” 

The lanterns were extinguished at last, the 
orchestra had ceased, darkness and silence fell over 
that scene of abounding glow and glory and over 
the tranquil village. Upon the serene mountain 
heights and river the stars looked calmly down, 
twinkling in the blue depths of the sky. 

The echo of that festivity and of Mr. Morton’s 
announcement had already reached even the 
seclusion of Hornby. A rare occurrence indeed, 
one of the Hall servants was sent into the village, 
ostensibly to buy some utensil, in reality to pick up 
news. And as he had hung about till a rather late 
hour, he heard the great news from some of those 
homeward bound. Mrs. Miles had kept the intelli- 
gence to herself, but a lamp burned late in 
her room that night, and her ghastly face might 
have been seen staring out vengefully in the direc- 
tion of Henry Morton’s house. For she, too, had 
heard in the evening’s festivity the first bugle call 
of battle and the clarion note of the enemy’s ulti- 
mate victory. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


MRS. MILES GROWS DESPERATE. 

N ext afternoon most of the boys and girls as- 
sembled in Mayfair to talk over the previous 
night’s fun. The boys lounged about in various 
attitudes upon the grass. Marjorie was in her 
favorite perch on the branch of a tree. Mary sat 
sedately on the bench with Marie Lewis on one 
side of her and Dollie Martin on the other. Marie 
was teaching Mary Pemberton to crochet in bright- 
colored wools, which was a new and fascinating 
employment which she learned with wonderful 
facility. 

“They teach us such a lot of things at the con- 
vent,” observed Marie, in her slightly affected voice. 
“The convent, what’s that?” inquired Mary. 
Marie looked at her in surprise. None of the 
girls or boys could get quite accustomed to her 
phenomenal ignorance. 

i75 


176 Mrs. Miles Grows Desperate. 

“Oh, it’s where we go to school,” explained Ma- 
rie, “where nuns teach, don’t you know?” 

Mary looked more puzzled than ever. 

“Is a nun a woman?” she asked. 

There was a choking sound from the grass and 
Dick Dalton turned away a very red face, while 
Ned Wallace clapped his hand over his mouth and 
Luke Morris snickered audibly. The tree-top shook 
vigorously just then, which fact suggested the idea 
that the boys’ mirth might have got up there and 
infected Marjorie. But Marie Lewis managed to 
preserve her gravity. She was a very well-bred 
girl. Dollie Martin only smiled. 

“Oh, yes, nuns are women,” Marie explained, 
quite seriously. “But you must come and see them 
sometime.” 

“Perhaps you’ll be going with me to school at 
the convent in September,” suggested Marjorie 
from above. 

Mary flushed with pleasure. She was eager to 
learn, for Mrs. Miles’ teaching had been rather 
elementary and the girl keenly felt how much less 
she knew than any of these boys and girls of her 
own age. 

“Won’t that be lovely!” chimed in the other girls. 
“We shall all be there together.” 


Mrs. Miles Grows Desperate. 177 

For the next few minutes the convent formed 
a deeply interesting topic. That mysterious region 
elicited many inquiries from Mary and very soon 
she knew the names of the different teachers and 
of a number of the pupils. Marjorie descended 
from the tree in the interests of the theme and 
talked away hard and fast, joining in all that gos- 
sip of school life which is so fascinating to convent- 
bred girls. The trivial incidents, the harmless jokes, 
the current events were all minutely chronicled. The 
day was recalled when Marjorie had been admitted 
to the Sodality of the Blessed Virgin, while Marie 
Lewis was made Vice-President and Florence Lewis 
would not be let in at all for six months, because 
she persistently talked in the halls and classrooms. 

The boys soon wearied of a conversation from 
which they found themselves excluded and tried a 
little desultory talk amongst themselves on the more 
congenial topics of football and baseball, but they 
showed signs of boredom. Dicky Dalton got up 
and strolled down the road, saying he would prob- 
ably look in again later. The girls paid no heed 
to his going, so engrossed were they in convent 
recollections, and the birds in the tree-tops did not 
chatter more briskly than did they. Suddenly there 
was an interruption. The sound of wheels was 


178 Mrs. Miles Grows Desperate. 

heard and all craned their necks to see what heavy 
vehicle might be approaching. It was obscured, at 
first, by a cloud of dust, then Marjorie and Jack, 
the keen-eyed, uttered a simultaneous exclamation. 

“Oh, Mary!” cried Marjorie, drawing near and 
putting an arm protectingly about her. 

“I say,” shouted Jack, forgetting manners in 
his excitement, “it’s the carriage from Hornby! I 
see the old driver’s white head!” 

There was a moment of blank consternation in 
the -group. No one had anticipated such a thing. 
Even Mr. Morton had taken it for granted that 
the affair was settled or, at least, that he should 
hear from Mr. Pemberton through his lawyers. 
Therefore no such event had been expected and no 
preparation made for the emergency. 

Mary turned as pale as death, but stood quite 
still, saying nothing. 

“Father is gone to town!” exclaimed Marjorie 
in a hushed tone of dismay. Mr. Morton had, in- 
deed, gone to Philadelphia on that very business, to 
see his lawyers and have everything concerning his 
guardianship of Mary put on a legal basis, and Mrs. 
Morton had gone with him to do some shopping. 

The Mayfair girls, who all were present except 
Kitty Hogan, gathered helplessly around Mary, and 


Mrs. Miles Grows Desperate. 179 

the boys prepared gallantly to protect her. The 
carriage drove straight in through the Mortons’ 
gate. The children in Mayfair had, for the 
moment, passed unnoticed, for they were keeping 
very quiet under the trees. 

Was there an occupant of the carriage? The 
children held their breaths. They watched to see 
the white-haired coachman alight and ascend the 
steps. But he did not do so. Instead, the carriage 
door was opened and a woman heavily veiled 
stepped out. 

“Mrs. Miles!” cried Mary, with a shuddering, 
sickening terror in her voice. 

Jack Holland did not stop to think. Moved by 
a sudden impulse, he took Mary’s hand. 

“Come,” he exclaimed, “you can’t face her!” 

For he had seen Mrs. Miles on the memorable 
night in the long barn, and he knew whereof he 
spoke. Mary, wild with terror, seized the out- 
stretched hand and fled, keeping pace with the fleet- 
footed Jack, who was the swiftest runner at col- 
lege. When they were in the heart of the wood, 
which lay at some distance up on a height over- 
looking Mayfair, Jack stopped. 

“Sit down,” he said, and as Mary leaned back 
exhausted against a tree he fanned her with his hat. 


180 Mrs. Miles Grows Desperate. 

“She’ll never find you here,’’ he said, re- 
assuringly. He felt sorry for “the kid” as he 
glanced at her wan and terror-stricken face. 

“If she should come — ” Mary cried, looking up 
at the tall figure of the boy where he stood, erect 
and vigorous, his eager face flushed by the exertion 
of running. 

“Oh, at the worst, I think I can take care of 
you,” declared Jack, manfully. “She can’t bully 
me, and I’d like to see her lay a finger on you 
when I’m around.” 

For all his airs, he was an honest-hearted, manly 
fellow, with a protective feeling toward whatever 
was weak, and he was full of indignation against 
the woman who made this poor girl’s life miserable. 
Being courageous, he was also strong and athletic. 
Mary’s own courage rose a little when she looked 
up at him. During this past dream-like week she 
was experiencing the new sensation of having 
people to protect her and stand between her and 
evil. 

She had been so forlorn, left to the tender mercies 
of Mrs. Miles, who had made it her delight to in- 
vent new and cruel methods of “disciplining her,” 
as the phrase had been at Hornby Hall. So she 
rested in the pleasant coolness of the wood, where 


Mrs. Miles Grows Desperate. 181 

the glare of the sun was shut out by the green trees 
overhead, with a feeling of comparative security. 

“I guess the other fellows will show fight down 
there, all right enough,” Jack thought. But he 
was, in truth, a little anxious and extremely curious 
to see the upshot of the affair. At first, those of 
the boys and girls who remained were very averse 
indeed to showing fight, with the solitary exception 
of Hugh. He restrained the rest when they would 
have run after Mary and Jack to the woods, saying 
that Mrs. Miles would probably follow and that, 
as she couldn’t hurt any of them, they had better 
stay and face her. 

This seemed reasonable, though not altogether 
satisfactory, and the little band stood still awaiting 
Mrs. Miles, who had been ringing the Mortons’ 
door-bell. She was met at the door with the in- 
formation that Mr. and Mrs. Morton were out, and 
Miss Pemberton too. The maid, who knew some- 
thing of the affair, especially after a startled glance 
at the eyes which seemed to burn through the veil, 
did not think it necessary to say anything about 
Mayfair. But Mrs. Miles, turning to go down the 
steps, cast her sharp eyes around and pierced the 
group of boys and girls under the trees. She made 
directly for them, passing out of the gate with her 


1 82 Mrs. Miles Grows Desperate. - 

swift, cat-like tread, and across the road. Mary’s 
companions waited for the woman with trembling 
fascination as they saw her draw nearer and nearer. 

There was something terrifying about the woman, 
something weird and eerie, to which Mary’s terror 
at the very mention of her name and their own 
imaginations added indescribably. Luke Morris, 
who had felt the clutch of her bony fingers and 
had seen her evil face close to his in the shadow of 
the long barn, gave vent to his feelings in a 
groan. He was admonished by Hugh Graham to 
“shut up.” 

Yet even Hugh’s stout heart quailed within him 
as Mrs. Miles came near. He thought it would be 
less fearful if she were not veiled, if that face he 
too had seen, ghastly in the darkness, could be 
revealed, clearly and plainly. She entered at the gate, 
and seemed to bring something of the chill and 
dark atmosphere of Hornby Hall into the pleasant 
field of Mayfair, strewn with daisies and butter- 
cups upon which the sun shone down so warmly. 

Mrs. Miles came close to the trembling group 
and suddenly raised her veil. She had often punished 
Mary simply by standing before her, especially 
at night, and glaring at her. So she glared on the 
present occasion, speaking no word for fully five 


Mrs. Miles Grows Desperate. 183 

minutes. Marjorie could not endure it and shud- 
deringly hid her face on Dollie Martin’s shoulder, 
while the Lewis girls and Luke Morris turned away 
and fled ignominiously. They took care, however, 
not to betray Mary’s whereabouts by going in the 
direction she had taken. 

“Gosh!” cried Luke ? apologetically, when the 
two stopped at last for breath. “I couldn’t 
stand it!” 

Marie looked at him with a smile in which there 
was some contempt. Timid herself, she admired 
courage in others, especially in a boy. Luke read 
the glance and, feeling ashamed, managed to stam- 
mer out : 

“If you had got the fright I did the other night, 
when I was sentry at the long barn, you wouldn’t 
wonder that I ran away.” 

Marie, who was not outspoken like Marjorie, 
merely said : “She is very terrible and I am never 
brave. I’m a wretched coward.” 

“I’m not always a coward,” pleaded poor Luke. 
“You can ask the other fellows.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you’re not!” Marie murmured in 
her gentle voice. “This fearful woman is enough 
to frighten any one. Think of poor Mary’s having 
to live in the house with her.” 


1 84 Mrs. Miles Grows Desperate. 

“She won’t any more,” Florence Lewis remarked. 
“Mr. Morton says he is going to keep her here. 
But do you know, I think it was dreadful of us to 
run away and leave them.” 

There was an expression of real regret on her 
honest face as she spoke. 

“Well, it can’t be helped now !” Marie exclaimed, 
rather shortly, “and I think we’d better get away 
from her or the carriage may be coming.” 

This thought sent all three homeward as speedily 
as possible. 

Meanwhile Hugh Graham manfully stood his 
ground, well to the front of the group, and the Wal- 
lace boys, though in fear and trembling, for they 
were neither very big nor very brave, supported 
him. Marjorie and Dollie, it must be confessed, 
kept behind the tall figure of their young protector. 
Mrs. Miles let her cold eyes, fierce with a terrible 
malignity, travel from face to face. Then she said, 
in the hissing, icy tones which Mary had always 
found so terrible: 

“So the bird is flown !” 

This being undeniable, no one said anything. 

“But do you think I will go back without her?” 
she inquired, striking her umbrella upon the ground, 
as if it were an oaken staff. 


Mrs. Miles Grows Desperate. 185 

‘Even if Miss Pemberton were here,” declared 
Hugh, firmly, “we couldn’t let her go back without 
Mr. Morton’s knowledge.” 

“Oh, you couldn’t!” cried the woman, drawing 
so near to Hugh that it seemed she meditated doing 
him violence. 

And then a sudden courage came into Mar- 
jorie’s heart. She was after all the daughter of 
the house. It was for her to speak and she had 
been taught never to shirk doing the right thing. 
She stepped forward, throwing back her head with 
its tangled curls, and took her place by Hugh Gra- 
ham’s side. 

“I am Mr. Morton’s daughter,” she announced. 

“You are Mr. Morton’s daughter, are you?” 
Mrs. Miles repeated, wagging her head from side 
to side and advancing close to the girl. “You are 
Mr. Morton’s daughter?” 

The words, as they were uttered, sounded por- 
tentous, and there was a new gleam of deadly mal- 
ignity in the woman’s eyes. For at that moment 
a sudden resolution took possession of Mrs. Miles 
and she stood still, weighing the chances for and 
against her plan, in the dark recesses of her mind. 

“And Hugh is quite right,” Marjorie went on, 
resolutely; “even if Mary were here we couldn’t 


1 86 Mrs. Miles Grows Desperate. 

let her go with you, for my father says she is never 
to go back to Hornby Hall.” 

“If she’s not to go back to Hornby Hall,” cried 
the woman, clutching Marjorie with almost insane 
fury, “how would you like to go in her place ? Here, 
Silas Greene!” 

The white-haired coachman sprang from the 
box, just as Mrs. Miles raised Marjorie in her 
strong arms. 

“Take care of that young fool there,” she cried, 
pointing to Hugh, “till I get this wildcat into the 
carriage.” 

Silas Greene, rushing at Hugh, grappled with 
him, tripping up Ned Wallace by a dexterous move- 
ment of his foot as he sought to interfere, so that 
he fell sprawling on the ground. George Wallace, 
leaping the fence, made a rush across the road 
toward the Mortons’, and Dollie Martin ran for 
Jack, screaming at the top of her voice. Jack heard 
and came down at full speed, at the very instant 
that Dick Dalton strolled in at the gate. 

They lost not a moment in words, but made a 
simultaneous rush toward Mrs. Miles, seizing and 
holding her, while Jack sternly bade her put down 
the young lady. She stood still, only tightening 
her grasp upon Marjorie. 


Mrs. Miles Grows Desperate. 187 

“Dick, you hold her, and I’ll soon make her give 
up her prize!” said Jack, and in another moment 
Marjorie stood flushed, indignant, terrified, but free. 

“Get into the house as quick as you can,” ordered 
Jack. “We’ll hold her till you’re perfectly safe.” 

Marjorie’s flying feet crossed the road at the 
very time that George Wallace’s frantic pounding 
upon the door had been heard. The frightened 
women servants were now seen upon the steps, 
deploring the fact that Jerry was away and had 
taken the dog with him. 

Mrs. Miles, seeing that Marjorie had escaped, 
stood the picture of sullen and baffled rage. 

“Put me into the carriage!” she ordered in a 
hard voice. “Silas Greene, drop that fool and come 
on.” 

The coachman did as he was told, relaxing the 
iron grip he had taken of Hugh Graham, for he 
was a powerful fellow despite his white hair. He 
mounted the driver’s seat and prepared to drive off. 
Mrs. Miles’ face was terrible to behold. Her hair 
streamed down from under her bonnet, which with 
the veil had fallen off. Her eyes glared, and she 
was more livid of color than ever. She was a bold 
and desperate woman, and it had seemed possible 
to her by securing possession of Marjorie to 


1 88 Mrs. Miles Grows Desperate. 

effect a compromise with Mr. Morton, whom she 
guessed was in possession of much information 
concerning her. And it would be, moreover, a de- 
lightful revenge upon her enemy. All her plans 
had been upset by the bold and resolute action of 
the two lads. She was now nursing a sullen 
fury, which threatened to break forth into fierce 
imprecations. 

“You fools! you vipers!” she cried, shaking her 
fist at the boys, ‘Til be even with you yet, and as 
for that bird that’s out of the cage, I’ll never rest 
till she’s in it again.” 

By this time the cook and the housemaids, with 
Julie at their head, were running distracted across 
the road agitated and curious. Mrs. Miles never 
deigned them a word or glance: 

“Drive on, Silas Greene!” she commanded. 

And the lumbering, van-like vehicle drove away 
down the dusty highway. The boys stood, and 
looked after it, as it took that awful presence from 
their sight and lives forever. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


VISITORS TO HORNBY HALL. 

W hen Mr. Morton returned home and heard 
what had occurred, his indignation was so 
great that he was narrowly restrained by Mrs. Mor- 
ton from going directly to Hornby Hall. 

“I would not go to-day,” urged the wife; “your 
right to the child is now clearly established, and 
when once that is made known to Mr. Pemberton, 
the woman Miles will hardly care to put herself in 
opposition to the law. Moreover — ” 

“Yes, I know,” interrupted Mr. Morton, grimly, 
“we may be able to draw her claws effectively when 
I have had that interview with old Pemberton.” 

“I would wait, then, till you are perfectly cool 
and collected.” 

“I am cool enough now, for that matter!” cried 
Mr. Morton, wiping his brow, but his wife only 
smiled and laid a hand upon his arm, and he had to 

189 


190 Visitors to Hornby Hall. 

smile, too. It was agreed, however, that Mr. and 
Mrs. Morton should go together and literally beard 
the lion in his den. They felt confident they would 
be able to clear up, once and forever, the mystery 
which had so long cast its dark shadow over Hornby 
Hall. 

It was certain that, in any event, Mary was to 
remain with the Mortons, to go to the convent with 
Marjorie in the autumn, and to be at once instructed 
in her father’s faith, in which, it had been definitely 
understood at the time of the marriage, she was to 
be brought up. It would depend entirely on the 
dispositions of her grandfather after he heard Mr. 
Morton’s tale whether or not Mary should be 
allowed any further communication with the home 
which had been little more to her than a cruel prison. 

When the next morning dawned, bright and fair, 
Mr. Morton wandered about aimlessly, unable to 
settle to anything until that critical interview was 
over. The carriage was ordered for two o’clock 
precisely, and into it stepped the husband and wife. 
All the boys and girls had assembled in Mayfair, 
having some idea of what was going on. 

“I leave Mary in your care,” Mr. Morton 
cautioned the young folks, “but if there should be 
any sign whatever of Mrs. Miles or of the carriage 


Visitors to Hornby Hall. 191 

from Hornby, go instantly into the house, where 
admittance will be refused Mrs. Miles or any 
strangers. And there is one addition to your circle 
I would suggest.” 

“Who is that, papa?” asked Marjorie, wonder- 
ingly. 

Mr. Morton pointed to the kennel, whence pro- 
truded the head of the Mt. St. Bernard. The dog 
got up lazily, as if aware that he was being made 
the subject of the conversation, yawned, stretched 
himself and advanced, slowly wagging his splendid 
tail as if it were a plume. 

“He will be your best protection,” went on Mr. 
Morton. “With him stretched at Marjorie’s feet, 
well ! even Mrs. Miles will hardly dare lay a finger 
on any one of you.” 

This proposal was hailed with satisfaction, 
though the older boys asserted they could take care 
of the girls without assistance. Jack, in particular, 
was somewhat boastful, in consequence of the hap- 
penings of the previous day, and poor Luke Morris, 
reddening to the ears, could scarce raise his head. 
The group, indeed, ranged themselves in order of 
battle, but as the afternoon wore on without any 
signs of the enemy, they engaged in a game of tag. 
They were careful always, however, to keep a sharp 


192 Visitors to Hornby Hall. 

lookout. Nero, sympathetic dog that he was, joined 
in the sport, leaping over the daisy- and buttercup- 
strewn grass in ungainly frolics, barking joyfully 
and otherwise showing his good will. Or, again, 
he lay down upon the grass, under the tree, watch- 
ing with benevolent eye his young mistress and her 
companions, all of whom, in his wise dog-fashion, 
he regarded as persons to be trusted. 

When tired of the game, the circle reformed on 
the benches in the shade and talked over late events, 
in that pleasant, confidential manner into which 
children, as well as their elders, occasionally glide, 
particularly when any grave crisis is at hand. For 
the boys and girls all felt that there was something 
unusual in the air, and the stress of the last few 
days had united them wonderfully. All was peace 
and harmony, like that between the grass and the 
flowers, or the birds and the leafy tops of the trees. 
Even Jack and Marjorie refrained from their ever- 
lasting strife of tongues. All the children knew 
that Mr. and Mrs. Morton had gone to Hornby 
Hall and that Mary's fate trembled in the balance, 
and this made them thoughtful. But they did not 
fail to look up and down the road occasionally, lest 
Mrs. Miles should steal upon them stealthily. 

Mrs. Miles, however, was meditating no such 


Visitors to Hornby Hall. 193 

attempt. She was peering from an upper window 
of Hornby Hall, behind a dingy shutter, at the car- 
riage which drove rapidly in at the avenue gate. 
It turned its course through the stiff lines of poplars 
as surely and steadily as fate. Once at the house, 
the bell jingled sharply at Mr. Morton’s ring, and 
the woman with the white, scared face opened the 
door at the summons and returned to inform her 
master. The husband and wife waited in that once 
familiar room. It was now both dreary and ghostly, 
with the dank chill coming in from the weed- 
grown garden without. Mr. Morton stood before 
the picture of his cousin Bessie, and regarded it 
with the wistful gaze which maturity gives to that 
which recalls youth. 

He was thus occupied when the grating of the 
invalid chair was heard on the polished floor and 
Mr. Pemberton was wheeled into the room. He 
was cold, impassive as ever, but his eyes burned in 
his grim countenance with a baleful light. Mr. 
Morton turned from the contemplation of the 
picture and bowed to the old man. Mrs. Morton 
saluted him with equal formality. Mr. Pemberton 
began, in that metallic voice which so grated upon 
the ear : 

“And so, Mr. Henry Morton, you have been 


194 Visitors to Hornby Hall. 

striving to distinguish yourself in a new role, that 
of kidnapper.” 

“I have simply done my duty, sir, a duty too long 
delayed,” responded Mr. Morton, gravely. 

“I trusted to your honor,” began the old man, 
and broke off speaking with a bitter laugh. “Honor, 
I might have known, is what it means to most men, 
a fiction, a veil of respectability thrown over doubt- 
ful deeds. It ranks in my mind with religion, a 
conventional cloak of hypocrisy.” 

“That, sir,” interposed Mr. Morton, “I refuse to 
discuss with you. Religion, thank God, is with me 
and mine an integral part of life. You will permit me 
to say that the want of it has darkened your own 
life and occasioned many of its worst misfortunes.” 

Mr. Pemberton took a pinch of snuff, and looked 
at the speaker with a sardonic smile. 

“You are a bold fellow, Henry Morton,” he ex- 
claimed, “to come into my presence with such 
language. But what I want to hear instead, and 
what is so vitally important that I shall insist upon 
hearing it, is when you are going to restore the girl 
who went from this house to yours and who happens 
to be my grandchild. I have permitted the farce 
to go on for a day or two, but you and she shall 
dearly rue your part in it.” 


Visitors to Hornby Hall. 195 

“I will tell you at once and frankly,” declared 
Mr. Morton, speaking now without a shadow of 
fear or hesitation, “that as the guardian at law of 
Mary Pemberton, appointed by her father and 
mother, I can no longer delegate that trust to any 
one.” 

“The guardian at law,” repeated Mr. Pemberton, 
sarcastically. “You were a very long time in claim- 
ing that title, and you will be a still longer time in 
proving your claim.” 

“That point had better be settled at once!” de- 
clared Mr. Morton, coolly. And he drew from his 
pocket a document at sight of which a slight tremor 
of uneasiness passed over the old man’s face. 

“This is a copy,” continued the visitor, “of a will 
executed in due form by your son, Philip Pember- 
ton. The original I have deposited with my at- 
torney in Philadelphia.” 

Mr. Pemberton shaded hi£ eyes with his hand, 
as though the light hurt him, but he did not remove 
his keen and hawk-like gaze from the younger 
man’s face. 

“Would you care to examine into the provisions 
of that will?” inquired Mr. Morton, extending the 
parchment toward the recumbent figure in the chair. 
But Mr. Pemberton waved it aside. 


196 Visitors to Hornby Hall. 

“My solicitor will do that/’ he replied curtly, 
“and believe me, he will subject to a rigid scrutiny 
the provisions of a document which has been resur- 
rected from no one knows where so very oppor- 
tunely.” 

“It has been unearthed, as you say, opportunely,” 
responded Mr. Morton, quietly, “under somewhat 
peculiar circumstances, which I am prepared to ex- 
plain.” 

The old man sat waiting, but there was some- 
thing strained and unnatural in his attitude. 

“It is well, however,” resumed Mr. Morton, “to 
make clear, in the first place, another clause in the 
document.” 

“And that is?” inquired the metallic voice. 

“That not only does Mary Pemberton pass under 
my guardianship, but that she is constituted heir 
at law to a very considerable fortune. A portion 
of this fortune belonged to her mother and another 
portion to her father, inherited from his mother.” 

“It is false!” cried the old man, trying to rise 
in his chair and falling back helplessly. “It is a 
conspiracy to defraud me, to get control for your- 
selves of this property which you claim for the child.” 

A dark flush mounted to Mr. Morton’s very fore- 
head, and he repressed his anger by a strong effort. 


Visitors to Hornby Hall. 197 

“You are an old and helpless man, sir,” said he, 
“but you must not forget to whom you are speak- 
ing.” 

The tone and manner had some effect upon Mr. 
Pemberton and he strove to restrain the fury which 
possessed him. 

“This will shall be investigated,” he cried, 
“examined in every detail. That hated child shall 
not possess the property. Hated! Yes, in all these 
years, during which she came into my presence a 
white martyr, with eyes like those of the picture, 
upbraiding, and with a turn of the head and a 
movement of the hand so like another. She spoke 
no word, but the voice of her attitude spoke 
volumes ; and each time I gave her up to Mrs. Miles, 
to see if that wonderful creature could overcome 
her mute obstinacy.” 

Husband and wife exchanged a glance of horror, 
as the weird figure before them seemed oblivious 
for the moment of their presence. Mr. Morton, 
however, rallied the old man’s scattered senses by 
a question. 

“You remember, perhaps, on a late occasion, 
when your rest was disturbed toward midnight?” 

“Well, if it were so, what of that?” asked Mr. 
Pemberton, his attention immediately arrested. 


198 Visitors to Hornby Hall. 

“You found the house brilliantly illuminated and 
Mrs. Miles playing a comedy, as you declared, for 
some who were outside.” 

“You heard these worlds! You were there! You 
were listening!” cried the old man, highly excited. 

“I heard those words. I was there. I was listen- 
ing,” admitted Mr. Morton, quietly. “Mrs. Miles 
spoke to you of chicken thieves as a possible ex- 
planation. She further hinted at attempt of bur- 
glary. But Mrs. Miles knew very well that the 
hen-roost and Hornby Hall were equally safe from 
those outside. She was aware of what that band 
of resolute fellows had come to seek, of the identity 
of their leader, and both facts she kept from your 
knowledge.” 

Mr. Pemberton’s face had changed, stiffened, as 
he listened. Here was concealment, at least, if not 
treachery in the only being he had for many long 
years trusted. 

“I presume,” he observed at length with an effort, 
but it was more as though he were arguing with 
himself than addressing his listeners, “I presume 
she did not wish do disturb my rest with the tales.” 

“She did not wish you to know that the missing 
will had been taken from its hiding-place in the 
long barn.” 


Visitors to Hornby Hall. 199 

“What do you mean? What are you talking 
about?” cried the old man, in visible agitation. “She 
told me she had searched the long barn and there 
was not so much as a scrap of paper there.” 

“There were a good many others,” said Mr. Mor- 
ton, significantly, “even if the particular scrap of 
paper she was in search of failed to reach her eyes.” 

“Explain yourself, and at once!” 

“That I am about to do, if you will give me your 
attention.” 

“One moment,” interrupted Mr. Pemberton, and 
he impatiently touched the bell, which jerked his 
attendant into the room. “Shut out some of that 
light,” he commanded. 

The man obeyed, drawing down the Venetian 
blind, so that the last rays of the afternoon sun 
should not fall across the aged face, to display its 
changes. That sole ray of heaven’s blessedness 
that ever entered Hornby being shut out. the room 
took on an indescribable dinginess and a sinister 
darkness. 

“Now, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Pemberton, and the 
tale was begun. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


mr. morton's tale, which unveils the 

MYSTERY. 

“T was the leader in that enterprise,” began Mr. 

A Morton, “of the other night. I had been 
given a clue to the mystery of years, and had some 
reason to believe that your — that Philip — ” 

The old man started as if an adder had stung 
him. 

“Spare me,” he cried, “as much as possible all 
reference to Philip Pemberton.” 

“I am afraid,” objected Mr. Morton, “that his 
name must necessarily come into my narrative, but 
I beg of you to hear me out patiently. I am con- 
vinced that you will not regret having done so.” 

“Begin, then, that you may the sooner end,” 
snapped Mr. Pemberton, irritably. 

“It is my firm belief that in concealing his last 
will and testament in the long barn, Philip Pem- 
berton so acted because he feared and distrusted 
Mrs. Miles.” 


200 


Mr. Morton's Tale. 


201 


Mr. Morton paused. In the dimness he could 
not see the old man’s face, and only a harsh “Go 
on !” greeted the remark. 

“He hid it away, then, and it remained in the 
hiding-place till I discovered it. In the many visits 
which Mrs. Miles paid secretly and by night to the 
long barn, that providence which protects the in- 
nocent concealed from her this document, which 
she would assuredly have destroyed, with another to 
which we shall come later.” 

“You have made quite a number of gratuitous 
assertions,” interrupted Mr. Pemberton, “some of 
which you may later be called upon to prove; but, 
proceed to fact.” 

“Now, though Mrs. Miles did not discover the 
document, she was quite familiar with the loft above 
the long barn, which she used, indeed, for a variety 
of purposes. As it was a place impossible of access 
without a ladder, it was her custom to carry thither 
a light ladder from the -neighboring granary. This 
ladder was destroyed by fire when the barn was 
burned, and Mrs. Miles had been thus far unable 
or unwilling to replace it by another. Perhaps she 
was afraid that such a proceeding on her part might 
awaken suspicion or attract some one else’s at- 
tention to the long barn. But as I have reason to 


202 


Mr. Morton's Tale, 


think, it was a source of anxiety to her that she no 
longer had access to the loft, where, indeed, she 
had much at stake. She had her own secrets there 
and an accumulation of evidence against herself. 
This was one of those errors of judgment on the 
part of the wicked, which seem to be permitted for 
useful ends. She trusted to the fact that the 
servants of the Hall were old and slow-witted, com- 
pletely subservient to her will, and that no stranger 
frequented the premises. So, in the loft of the long 
barn was discovered the other night the key to the 
mystery, to the chain of mysteries, which so long 
seemed to encircle Hornby Hall. ,, 

Old Mr. Pemberton was erect, eager, by this 
time, but he gave no sign, save a tremulous move- 
ment of his hands on the arm of his invalid-chair. 

“To recur to the past,” Mr. Morton resumed 
after a pause, “Philip Pemberton was not always 
as prudent or economical in financial affairs as his 
father might have desired, but he was with all his 
faults the soul of honor and it cut him to the quick 
when, on one occasion, he was accused of having 
sold his militia uniform to pay some debt.” 

“He did dispose of it,” interposed the old man, 
sharply and decidedly. 

Mr. Morton shook his head. 


Which Unveils the Mystery. 203 

“In view of Philip’s own positive denial and my 
knowledge of his character, I never believed that 
he did so,” Mr. Morton declared; “the proof has 
come to hand. The uniform, rolled into a bundle, 
was found in the loft of the long barn.” 

Mr. Pemberton started. 

“Impossible!” he cried, harshly. 

“It can be produced,” said Mr. Morton. 

“Who could have put it there?” 

“Who, but one bearing enmity against Philip 
and seeking to put enmity between him and his 
father?” 

“And that was?” 

“Mrs. Miles; at least everything points to such 
a conclusion,” declared Mr. Morton. “But to pro- 
ceed : This matter of the uniform was one of many 
incidents which set father against son. These differ- 
ences culminated in a quarrel, and a blow and a fall 
which were supposed to have caused Philip’s death.” 

“Supposed?” gasped the old man. 

“Falsely supposed,” resumed Mr. Morton. “The 
fall would have been quite insufficient to cause 
death. A sleeping powder was administered secretly 
by Mrs. Miles. The patient never awoke.” 

Mr. Pemberton gave a cry, which those who 
heard it would remember to their dying day. 


204 


Mr. Morton's Tal:e, 


“Mrs. Miles was caught in the act by Bessie Pem- 
berton. She fled from the room to summon aid, 
but was seized and overpowered by Mrs. Miles and 
her husband and conveyed to the loft over the long 
barn, where she was detained a prisoner. In the 
end, she partially lost her reason and was persuaded 
by Mrs. Miles to go abroad in the care of her maid, 
where, as you know, she died/’ 

“Stop, sir, stop!” interrupted Mr. Pemberton. 
“This is a romance you are constructing. Bessie 
Pemberton, having been witness to the blow and 
the fall, accused me in her heart of having killed 
her husband and my son. She fled from the house, 
forgetful of long years of kindness, without giving 
me an opportunity to explain. She fled, as you say, 
to Europe, where she died.” 

“That is what you believed, what you have been 
led to believe all these years,” corrected Mr. Morton, 
“but my story is nevertheless the true one and I have 
it here in Writing, from Bessie Pemberton herself.” 

“You have it there in her writing?” echoed the 
old man, passing his hand over his head, as one 
bewildered. 

“Yes, in her writing, which I know well,” replied 
Mr. Morton, taking from his breast pocket a worn 
and soiled piece of paper. “This was found by me 


Which Unveils the Mystery. 205 

in the same secret hiding-place which contained 
Philip’s will, and, as you will see, it refers to the 
circumstance of the will’s concealment there.” 

He handed the paper to the old man, who took it 
with trembling fingers and began to read. All was 
as Henry Morton had said. The paper, as follows, 
began with the solemnity of legal form and ended 
in a hurried scrawl: 

“I, Bessie Pemberton, being now of sound mind, 
but not knowing how long my reason may stand 
the strain of these terrible events, desire to place on 
record my knowledge of all that has recently oc- 
curred, and to assure Philip’s father, who has been 
ever my kind friend, that he is quite innocent of 
having caused his son’s death. The blow and the 
accidental fall which followed were declared by the 
doctors insufficient to cause serious injury. When 
this decision was made known, Mrs. Miles instantly 
resolved, as I myself heard her say to her husband, 
to administer something do Philip which should be 
a quietus. For she feared that on his recovery there 
might be a complete reconciliation between father 
and son.” 

Mr. Pemberton could read no further; the paper 
fell from his shaking hand. 

“Shall I finish it?” asked Mr. Morton. 


2 o6 


Mr. Morton's Tale, 


Mr. Pemberton nodded mechanically. 

“Having detected the woman in the act, and 
heard her avowal of the deed, alas, too late to save 
Philip, I was seized by Mrs. Miles, with the aid of 
her husband, conveyed to this dreadful place, 
whence she may never let me go alive." 

What followed was merely a recapitulation of 
details, and the scrawl at the end became faint, and 
difficult to read. 

Mr. Morton, having folded the paper and given 
it to Mr. Pemberton, continued: 

“In our midnight raid we discovered the ex- 
planation of some minor mysteries, which are of 
interest at this late date chiefly because they bear 
upon those of greater importance. You may re- 
member, perhaps, Mr. Pemberton, the case of 
Hester Primrose, who was charged with the theft 
of certain articles of jewelry and served a term in 
the county jail, after which she disappeared." 

“I remember very well," assented Mr. Pember- 
ton in a strained, unnatural voice, “and up to the 
time of the theft Hester Primrose had been, as we 
supposed, a faithful servant." 

“Well, the ring and the brooch and the bracelet, 
which she was accused of stealing, are there in the 
loft." 


Which Unveils the Mystery. 207 

Mr. Pemberton gasped. 

“You may remember, possibly, a certain Malachy 
O’Rourke, who worked in the garden.” 

“Oh, yes, he was an Irishman lately landed,” 
cried Mr. Pemberton, with some return of his 
sardonic expression, “a liar and a hypocrite, pre- 
tending to be religious, and to be devoted to his 
master, but turning out in the end a drunken, lying, 
worthless wretch.” 

“Malachy O’Rourke,” said Mr. Morton, “like 
Hester Primrose, became acquainted in some way 
with some of the facts above related.” 

Here the clock in the hall tolled out the hour, 
with a deep-sounding toll which seemed an in- 
tolerable impertinence and an unbearable delay to 
the old man. For he was leaning forward with 
parted lips, his eyes alert and eager but touched 
with a strange bewilderment. 

“Malachy O’Rourke,” went on the narrator, “was 
dismissed peremptorily from the Hall on charges 
made by Mrs. Miles, all of which were untrue. He 
sought, as you may remember, an interview with 
his master, which was refused. He even managed 
to convey to you a note declaring that he suspected 
foul play in more than one direction.” 

“I received that note,” the old man admitted, 


208 


Mr. Morton's Tale, 


“but as Mrs. Miles agreed with me, and as I sup- 
posed, it was a bare attempt of a wretch who had 
been found out to blacken the character of others." 

“It was, on the contrary, a part of the whole 
scheme, a determination on the part of Mrs. Miles 
to rid herself of all who could possibly bear witness 
against her. Malachy O'Rourke will in due time 
be produced to corroborate what I have stated and 
to prove his own continued respectability by testi- 
monials from all his employers." 

“It has been all a dream, a hideous nightmare!" 
exclaimed Mr. Pemberton. 

“There is one person more," went on Mr. Mor- 
ton, “who knows something, if not all, of the truth. 
She is Hannah Barton, still in your employ. Her 
curiosity was awakened concerning the long barn. 
In a spirit of mischief, she went there one evening, 
just as the dusk was falling. She had a wager with 
Malachy O’Rourke that she would find out what 
was going on there. She peered through cracks 
and crannies, and was caught in the act by Mrs. 
Miles, who punished her by shutting her up in a 
small room which opens off the long barn. There 
she was compelled to listen all night to sighs and 
groans which she believed to be supernatural. Her 
hair turned white during those hours of captivity. 


Which Unveils the Mystery. 209 

By morning she was Mrs. Miles’ slave, though she 
discovered with the daylight that it was no ghost 
in the loft above, but Mrs. Philip, whom she sup- 
posed from Mrs. Miles’ account to be deranged. 
She never, as far as is known, from that day to this 
recovered from the fright nor spoke a word to any 
one of what she had discovered. But Bessie Pem- 
berton recorded the circumstance and no doubt it 
can be presently substantiated from the woman’s 
own lips.” 

Mr. Pemberton asked no further question. His 
head sank upon his breast and he seemed lost in a 
kind of stupor. 

“What I learned from my cousin Bessie’s manu- 
script was in part, at least, substantiated by my 
chance meeting with Malachy O’Rourke, who has 
lately returned to Philadelphia. He thinks he could 
put his finger on Hester Primrose, if required, who 
is living in misery in Liverpool. She can give proof 
as to what Mrs. Miles is.” 

“That woman ! that fiend !” cried Mr. Pemberton, 
with a sudden despairing rage in his voice. “When 
I think of the years of suffering she has made me 
endure, the maddening, cruel years which turned me 
to stone and made me hate even my son’s child — 
oh, lest I do her an injury, let her depart swiftly 


210 


Mr. Morton's Tale, 


from within these walls, which she has made ac- 
cursed, from the house which she has turned into 
a byword.” 

“Have we the right to turn such a woman out 
upon the world unpunished, to be a menace to 
society and to our own peace?” Mr. Morton asked, 
gravely. 

“But we can not make public these things, these 
fearful, monstrous things,” cried Mr. Pemberton 
in agony. “We can not lay bare to the mockery 
of the world secrets so long buried.” 

“We can have this woman arrested on a specific 
charge,” suggested Mr. Morton. 

“Let her go, let her go !” cried the old man, and 
for one brief moment he stood erect, an awful 
spectacle of despairing grief. 

Mrs. Morton, who had remained silent through- 
out that painful interview, now hastened to the old 
man’s side. AJ1 other feeling was swallowed up in 
pity. 

“Bring her here first,” he commanded, “that I 
may confront her with the ruin she has caused !” 

The bell was rung and Mrs. Miles was summoned. 
But her room was empty, and it was evident 
from its disorder that she had fled. She had stolen 
down, indeed, and listened at the closed door behind 


Which Unveils the Mystery. 21 i 

which her life-story was being told. As each dark 
page was unfolded, she clenched her hands convul- 
sively, her ashen face contorted into a fearful 
passion of baffled rage and hate. When she learned 
that Malachy O’Rourke and Hester Primrose were 
available as witnesses, in addition to those palpable 
evidences of guilt found in the loft, she waited no 
longer. 

She stole back to her room, put into a satchel 
a few of her effects, together with the savings of 
years. But before she departed from Hornby Hall, 
of which she had been the evil genius, she paused 
upon the threshold, and laughed her mirthless, 
soundless laugh. 

“I came here,” she said, “a young girl, full of a 
fool’s piety, believing in a God and in a lot of other 
things. The master himself by his sneers and his 
jibes destroyed my belief. I heard him laugh at 
Mrs. Philip, who would never give up her faith. 
Day after day, year after year, I heard him call 
those fools who believed in what they couldn’t see. 
Drop by drop, I drank it in and I began to see like 
him that we all were deceived, that there is no other 
world and no God. After that I was free to do as 
I pleased, and I did so. I gave up Church and priests 
and God, and I became what I am.” 


212 


Mr. Morton's Tale, 


She laughed again, then looked back into the 
hall with a shuddering cry. 

“But there is a God, and He has made known 
what I thought the grave' had hidden." 

With a light almost of insanity in her eyes, she 
sped down the steps and away, away from Hornby 
forever. She walked to the nearest railroad station 
and there, under cover of the darkness, took the 
train which would lead her to town, thenceforth to 
lose herself in the world’s great whirlpool. She 
had little fear of pursuit. She knew her master 
well and that he dreaded publicity as he dreaded 
death. 

When the place had been searched and it was 
evident that Mrs. Miles had really gone, with no 
intentions, as was evident from her preparations, 
of coming back, relief was in every heart. And as 
Henry Morton and his wife stood beside the old 
man, he said, in a voice that was already changed 
and softened: “Send for her now! for Mary!" 

Mr. Morton hesitated. 

“Not to keep her — I do not mean that," Mr. 
Pemberton declared; “she shall never spend a night 
under this ill-starred roof. But that I may see her 
in the light of this new knowledge. See Philip’s 
child, knowing that I was innocent of her father’s 


Which Unveils the Mystery. 213 

death. See Bessie’s child, knowing that the mother 
never doubted me. * Ah, that faith which she held, 
and which I strove to destroy, kept her warm and 
true, a beautiful nature. She would have uplifted 
Philip too had I let her, and they would have been 
happy.” 

The carriage was sent back for Mary, and while 
it was gone Mrs. Morton opened doors and windows 
and let in the air and sunshine. She bade Hannah 
Barton be merry for that Mrs. Miles would come 
back no more. And in some mysterious way she 
imparted a new touch of cheerfulness to all the sur- 
roundings. When Mary came back, trembling and 
despairing, believing that she was to be delivered 
up, there was the door of her unloved home stand- 
ing open and the irreverent sun straying in, like a 
careless child, making patterns upon the floor. 
Mary was hugged by Mrs. Morton and brought 
straight to her grandfather, who stretched out 
tremulous, eager arms to her and, then, thrust her 
backward that he might gaze into her face. 

“Bessie’s child!” he murmured, “Philip’s child! 
My child!” 

After which he cried out to her with a strange, 
eager earnestness, as if warning against an instant’s 
delay : 


214 


Mr. Morton's Tale. 


“Make haste to learn your religion, child, your 
mother’s religion, and grow up like her to be a 
pure, sweet, true-hearted woman.” 

When they all drove away that evening, it was 
only to return every day to cheer the desolate old 
man, who was now faithfully tended, not only by 
his own attendant, but by Hannah Barton and 
Malachy O’Rourke. The latter was set to work to 
make the garden beautiful again, for its old-time 
beauty had been ruthlessly destroyed. And many 
a snatch of the cheerful and heart-stirring melodies 
of his native land did the gardener sing under the 
master’s window. 

The boys and girls of Mayfair, during each 
summer vacation, were often found upon the lawn 
at the bidding of Mr. Pemberton, where bountiful 
refreshments were served and all games provided 
for their amusement. Mary was in their midst, 
cordial and friendly as ever, and quite regardless 
of her heirship, not only to this great house, but to 
much more besides. By common consent the past 
was never touched upon in that little intimate circle, 
and the countryside at large began in the course 
of years to forget that there had ever been a mystery 
at Hornby Hall. 

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Her Father’s Right Hand. o 45 

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POPULAR INSTRUCTIONS ON PRAYER. By Very Rev. Ferreol Girardev, C.SS.R. 
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POPULAR INSTRUCTIONS TO PARENTS ON THE BRINGING UP OF CHILDREN. 
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POPULAR INSTRUCTIONS ON MARRIAGE. By Very Rev. Ferreol Girardey, C.SS.R. 
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CATHOLIC BELIEF. By Very Rev. Fa& di Bruno. i6mo. Paper, $0.25 ; cloth, $0.50. 

WHAT THE CHURCH TEACHES. An Answer to Earnest Inquirers. By Rev. E. Drury. 
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SPIRITUAL PEPPER AND SALT, for Catholics and Non-Catholics. By Rt. Rev. W. 
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CATHOLIC CEREMONIES AND EXPLANATION OF THE ECCLESIASTICAL YEAR. 
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THE SACRAMENTALS OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH. By Rev. A. A. Lambing. With 
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EXPLANATION OF THE GOSPELS AND OF CATHOLIC WORSHIP. By Rev. L. A. 
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CATHOLIC PRACTICE AT CHURCH AND AT HOME. The Parishioner’s Little Rule 
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ILLUSTRATED EXPLANATION OF THE HOLY SACRAMENTS. With Numerous Ex- 
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ILLUSTRATED EXPLANATION OF THE COMMANDMENTS. By Rev. H. Rolfus. 
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GOFFTNF/S DEVOUT INSTRUCTIONS ON THE EPISTLES AND GOSPELS. Illustrated 
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